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diff --git a/4758-h/4758-h.htm b/4758-h/4758-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b7e0510 --- /dev/null +++ b/4758-h/4758-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7288 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Late Lyrics and Earlier, by Thomas Hardy</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Late Lyrics and Earlier, by Thomas Hardy + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Late Lyrics and Earlier + with many other verses + + +Author: Thomas Hardy + + + +Release Date: January 18, 2015 [eBook #4758] +[This file was first posted on March 12, 2002] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LATE LYRICS AND EARLIER*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1922 Macmillan and Co. edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/coverb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Book cover" +title= +"Book cover" + src="images/covers.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>LATE LYRICS<br /> +AND EARLIER</h1> +<p style="text-align: center">WITH MANY OTHER VERSES</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br +/> +THOMAS HARDY</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED<br /> +ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1922</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="pageiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. iv</span><span +class="GutSmall">COPYRIGHT</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">PRINTED IN +GREAT BRITAIN</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>APOLOGY</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">About</span> half the verses that follow +were written quite lately. The rest are older, having been +held over in MS. when past volumes were published, on considering +that these would contain a sufficient number of pages to offer +readers at one time, more especially during the distractions of +the war. The unusually far back poems to be found here are, +however, but some that were overlooked in gathering previous +collections. A freshness in them, now unattainable, seemed +to make up for their inexperience and to justify their +inclusion. A few are dated; the dates of others are not +discoverable.</p> +<p>The launching of a volume of this kind in neo-Georgian days by +one who began writing in mid-Victorian, and has published nothing +to speak of for some years, may seem to call for a few words of +excuse or <a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vi</span>explanation. Whether or no, readers may feel +assured that a new book is submitted to them with great +hesitation at so belated a date. Insistent practical +reasons, however, among which were requests from some illustrious +men of letters who are in sympathy with my productions, the +accident that several of the poems have already seen the light, +and that dozens of them have been lying about for years, +compelled the course adopted, in spite of the natural +disinclination of a writer whose works have been so frequently +regarded askance by a pragmatic section here and there, to draw +attention to them once more.</p> +<p>I do not know that it is necessary to say much on the contents +of the book, even in deference to suggestions that will be +mentioned presently. I believe that those readers who care +for my poems at all—readers to whom no passport is +required—will care for this new instalment of them, perhaps +the last, as much as for any that have preceded them. +Moreover, in the eyes of a less friendly class the pieces, though +a very mixed collection indeed, contain, so far as I am able to +see, little or nothing in technic or teaching that can be +considered a Star-Chamber matter, or so much as agitating to a +ladies’ <a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span>school; even though, to use Wordsworth’s +observation in his Preface to <i>Lyrical Ballads</i>, such +readers may suppose “that by the act of writing in verse an +author makes a formal engagement that he will gratify certain +known habits of association: that he not only thus apprises the +reader that certain classes of ideas and expressions will be +found in his book, but that others will be carefully +excluded.”</p> +<p>It is true, nevertheless, that some grave, positive, stark, +delineations are interspersed among those of the passive, +lighter, and traditional sort presumably nearer to stereotyped +tastes. For—while I am quite aware that a thinker is +not expected, and, indeed, is scarcely allowed, now more than +heretofore, to state all that crosses his mind concerning +existence in this universe, in his attempts to explain or excuse +the presence of evil and the incongruity of penalizing the +irresponsible—it must be obvious to open intelligences +that, without denying the beauty and faithful service of certain +venerable cults, such disallowance of “obstinate +questionings” and “blank misgivings” tends to a +paralysed intellectual stalemate. Heine observed nearly a +hundred years ago that the soul has her eternal rights; that she +will not be darkened <a name="pageviii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. viii</span>by statutes, nor lullabied by the +music of bells. And what is to-day, in allusions to the +present author’s pages, alleged to be +“pessimism” is, in truth, only such +“questionings” in the exploration of reality, and is +the first step towards the soul’s betterment, and the +body’s also.</p> +<p>If I may be forgiven for quoting my own old words, let me +repeat what I printed in this relation more than twenty years +ago, and wrote much earlier, in a poem entitled “In +Tenebris”:</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">If way to the Better +there be, it exacts a full look at the Worst:</p> +</blockquote> +<p>that is to say, by the exploration of reality, and its frank +recognition stage by stage along the survey, with an eye to the +best consummation possible: briefly, evolutionary +meliorism. But it is called pessimism nevertheless; under +which word, expressed with condemnatory emphasis, it is regarded +by many as some pernicious new thing (though so old as to +underlie the Christian idea, and even to permeate the Greek +drama); and the subject is charitably left to decent silence, as +if further comment were needless.</p> +<p>Happily there are some who feel such Levitical passing-by to +be, alas, by no <a name="pageix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +ix</span>means a permanent dismissal of the matter; that comment +on where the world stands is very much the reverse of needless in +these disordered years of our prematurely afflicted century: that +amendment and not madness lies that way. And looking down +the future these few hold fast to the same: that whether the +human and kindred animal races survive till the exhaustion or +destruction of the globe, or whether these races perish and are +succeeded by others before that conclusion comes, pain to all +upon it, tongued or dumb, shall be kept down to a minimum by +lovingkindness, operating through scientific knowledge, and +actuated by the modicum of free will conjecturally possessed by +organic life when the mighty necessitating +forces—unconscious or other—that have “the +balancings of the clouds,” happen to be in equilibrium, +which may or may not be often.</p> +<p>To conclude this question I may add that the argument of the +so-called optimists is neatly summarized in a stern pronouncement +against me by my friend Mr. Frederic Harrison in a late essay of +his, in the words: “This view of life is not +mine.” The solemn declaration does not seem to me to +be so annihilating to <a name="pagex"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. x</span>the said “view” (really a +series of fugitive impressions which I have never tried to +co-ordinate) as is complacently assumed. Surely it embodies +a too human fallacy quite familiar in logic. Next, a +knowing reviewer, apparently a Roman Catholic young man, speaks, +with some rather gross instances of the <i>suggestio falsi</i> in +his article, of “Mr. Hardy refusing consolation,” the +“dark gravity of his ideas,” and so on. When a +Positivist and a Catholic agree there must be something wonderful +in it, which should make a poet sit up. But . . . O that +’twere possible!</p> +<p>I would not have alluded in this place or anywhere else to +such casual personal criticisms—for casual and unreflecting +they must be—but for the satisfaction of two or three +friends in whose opinion a short answer was deemed desirable, on +account of the continual repetition of these criticisms, or more +precisely, quizzings. After all, the serious and truly +literary inquiry in this connection is: Should a shaper of such +stuff as dreams are made on disregard considerations of what is +customary and expected, and apply himself to the real function of +poetry, the application of ideas to life (in Matthew +Arnold’s familiar phrase)? <a name="pagexi"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xi</span>This bears more particularly on what +has been called the “philosophy” of these +poems—usually reproved as “queer.” +Whoever the author may be that undertakes such application of +ideas in this “philosophic” direction—where it +is specially required—glacial judgments must inevitably +fall upon him amid opinion whose arbiters largely decry +individuality, to whom <i>ideas</i> are oddities to smile at, who +are moved by a yearning the reverse of that of the Athenian +inquirers on Mars Hill; and stiffen their features not only at +sound of a new thing, but at a restatement of old things in new +terms. Hence should anything of this sort in the following +adumbrations seem “queer”—should any of them +seem to good Panglossians to embody strange and disrespectful +conceptions of this best of all possible worlds, I apologize; but +cannot help it.</p> +<p>Such divergences, which, though piquant for the nonce, it +would be affectation to say are not saddening and discouraging +likewise, may, to be sure, arise sometimes from superficial +aspect only, writer and reader seeing the same thing at different +angles. But in palpable cases of divergence they arise, as +already said, <a name="pagexii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xii</span>whenever a serious effort is made towards that which +the authority I have cited—who would now be called +old-fashioned, possibly even parochial—affirmed to be what +no good critic could deny as the poet’s province, the +application of ideas to life. One might shrewdly guess, by +the by, that in such recommendation the famous writer may have +overlooked the cold-shouldering results upon an enthusiastic +disciple that would be pretty certain to follow his putting the +high aim in practice, and have forgotten the disconcerting +experience of Gil Blas with the Archbishop.</p> +<p>To add a few more words to what has already taken up too many, +there is a contingency liable to miscellanies of verse that I +have never seen mentioned, so far as I can remember; I mean the +chance little shocks that may be caused over a book of various +character like the present and its predecessors by the +juxtaposition of unrelated, even discordant, effusions; poems +perhaps years apart in the making, yet facing each other. +An odd result of this has been that dramatic anecdotes of a +satirical and humorous intention (such, <i>e.g.</i>, as +“Royal Sponsors”) following verse in graver voice, +have been read as misfires <a name="pagexiii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xiii</span>because they raise the smile that +they were intended to raise, the journalist, deaf to the sudden +change of key, being unconscious that he is laughing with the +author and not at him. I admit that I did not foresee such +contingencies as I ought to have done, and that people might not +perceive when the tone altered. But the difficulties of +arranging the themes in a graduated kinship of moods would have +been so great that irrelation was almost unavoidable with efforts +so diverse. I must trust for right note-catching to those +finely-touched spirits who can divine without half a whisper, +whose intuitiveness is proof against all the accidents of +inconsequence. In respect of the less alert, however, +should any one’s train of thought be thrown out of gear by +a consecutive piping of vocal reeds in jarring tonics, without a +semiquaver’s rest between, and be led thereby to miss the +writer’s aim and meaning in one out of two contiguous +compositions, I shall deeply regret it.</p> +<p>Having at last, I think, finished with the personal points +that I was recommended to notice, I will forsake the immediate +object of this Preface; and, leaving <i>Late Lyrics</i> to +whatever fate it deserves, <a name="pagexiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xiv</span>digress for a few moments to more +general considerations. The thoughts of any man of letters +concerned to keep poetry alive cannot but run uncomfortably on +the precarious prospects of English verse at the present +day. Verily the hazards and casualties surrounding the +birth and setting forth of almost every modern creation in +numbers are ominously like those of one of Shelley’s +paper-boats on a windy lake. And a forward conjecture +scarcely permits the hope of a better time, unless men’s +tendencies should change. So indeed of all art, literature, +and “high thinking” nowadays. Whether owing to +the barbarizing of taste in the younger minds by the dark madness +of the late war, the unabashed cultivation of selfishness in all +classes, the plethoric growth of knowledge simultaneously with +the stunting of wisdom, “a degrading thirst after +outrageous stimulation” (to quote Wordsworth again), or +from any other cause, we seem threatened with a new Dark Age.</p> +<p>I formerly thought, like so many roughly handled writers, that +so far as literature was concerned a partial cause might be +impotent or mischievous criticism; the satirizing of +individuality, the lack of whole-seeing in contemporary estimates +<a name="pagexv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xv</span>of poetry +and kindred work, the knowingness affected by junior reviewers, +the overgrowth of meticulousness in their peerings for an +opinion, as if it were a cultivated habit in them to scrutinize +the tool-marks and be blind to the building, to hearken for the +key-creaks and be deaf to the diapason, to judge the landscape by +a nocturnal exploration with a flash-lantern. In other +words, to carry on the old game of sampling the poem or drama by +quoting the worst line or worst passage only, in ignorance or not +of Coleridge’s proof that a versification of any length +neither can be nor ought to be all poetry; of reading meanings +into a book that its author never dreamt of writing there. +I might go on interminably.</p> +<p>But I do not now think any such temporary obstructions to be +the cause of the hazard, for these negligences and ignorances, +though they may have stifled a few true poets in the run of +generations, disperse like stricken leaves before the wind of +next week, and are no more heard of again in the region of +letters than their writers themselves. No: we may be +convinced that something of the deeper sort mentioned must be the +cause.</p> +<p><a name="pagexvi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xvi</span>In +any event poetry, pure literature in general, religion—I +include religion because poetry and religion touch each other, or +rather modulate into each other; are, indeed, often but different +names for the same thing—these, I say, the visible signs of +mental and emotional life, must like all other things keep +moving, becoming; even though at present, when belief in witches +of Endor is displacing the Darwinian theory and “the truth +that shall make you free,” men’s minds appear, as +above noted, to be moving backwards rather than on. I +speak, of course, somewhat sweepingly, and should except many +isolated minds; also the minds of men in certain worthy but small +bodies of various denominations, and perhaps in the homely +quarter where advance might have been the very least expected a +few years back—the English Church—if one reads it +rightly as showing evidence of “removing those things that +are shaken,” in accordance with the wise Epistolary +recommendation to the Hebrews. For since the historic and +once august hierarchy of Rome some generation ago lost its chance +of being the religion of the future by doing otherwise, and +throwing over the little band of neo-Catholics who were making a +struggle for continuity by <a name="pagexvii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xvii</span>applying the principle of evolution +to their own faith, joining hands with modern science, and +outflanking the hesitating English instinct towards liturgical +reform (a flank march which I at the time quite expected to +witness, with the gathering of many millions of waiting agnostics +into its fold); since then, one may ask, what other purely +English establishment than the Church, of sufficient dignity and +footing, and with such strength of old association, such +architectural spell, is left in this country to keep the shreds +of morality together?</p> +<p>It may be a forlorn hope, a mere dream, that of an alliance +between religion, which must be retained unless the world is to +perish, and complete rationality, which must come, unless also +the world is to perish, by means of the interfusing effect of +poetry—“the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; +the impassioned expression of science,” as it was defined +by an English poet who was quite orthodox in his ideas. But +if it be true, as Comte argued, that advance is never in a +straight line, but in a looped orbit, we may, in the aforesaid +ominous moving backward, be doing it <i>pour mieux sauter</i>, +drawing back for a spring. <a name="pagexviii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xviii</span>I repeat that I forlornly hope so, +notwithstanding the supercilious regard of hope by Schopenhauer, +von Hartmann, and other philosophers down to Einstein who have my +respect. But one dares not prophesy. Physical, +chronological, and other contingencies keep me in these days from +critical studies and literary circles</p> +<blockquote><p>Where once we held debate, a band<br /> +Of youthful friends, on mind and art</p> +</blockquote> +<p>(if one may quote Tennyson in this century of free +verse). Hence I cannot know how things are going so well as +I used to know them, and the aforesaid limitations must quite +prevent my knowing hence-forward.</p> +<p>I have to thank the editors and owners of <i>The Times</i>, +<i>Fortnightly</i>, <i>Mercury</i>, and other periodicals in +which a few of the poems have appeared for kindly assenting to +their being reclaimed for collected publication.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">T. H.</p> +<p><i>February</i> 1922.</p> +<h2><a name="pagexix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xix</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Apology</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#pagev">v</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Weathers</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The maid of Keinton +Mandeville</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page3">3</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Summer Schemes</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page5">5</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Epeisodia</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page6">6</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Faintheart in a Railway +Train</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page8">8</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">At Moonrise and Onwards</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page9">9</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Garden Seat</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page11">11</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Barthélémon at +Vauxhall</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page12">12</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">I sometimes +think</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page14">14</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Jezreel</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page15">15</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Jog-trot Pair</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page17">17</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">The Curtains now are +drawn</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page19">19</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">According to the Mighty +Working</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page21">21</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">I was not He</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page22">22</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The West-of-Wessex Girl</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page23">23</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Welcome Home</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page25">25</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Going and Staying</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page26">26</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Read by Moonlight</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page27">27</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">At a house in Hampstead</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page28">28</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Woman’s Fancy</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page30">30</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagexx"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xx</span><span class="smcap">Her Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page33">33</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Wet August</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page35">35</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Dissemblers</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page36">36</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To a Lady playing and singing in the +Morning</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page37">37</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">A Man was drawing near to +me</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page38">38</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Strange House</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">As ’twere +To-night</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page42">42</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Contretemps</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page43">43</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Gentleman’s Epitaph on Himself +and a Lady</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page46">46</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Old Gown</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page48">48</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Night in November</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page50">50</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Duettist to her +Pianoforte</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page51">51</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">Where Three Roads +joined</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page53">53</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">And There was a Great +Calm</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page55">55</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Haunting Fingers</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page59">59</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Woman I Met</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page63">63</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">If it’s ever Spring +again</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page67">67</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Two Houses</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page68">68</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On Stinsford Hill at +Midnight</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page72">72</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Fallow Deer at the Lonely +House</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page74">74</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Selfsame Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page75">75</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Wanderer</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page76">76</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Wife comes back</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page78">78</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Young Man’s +Exhortation</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page81">81</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">At Lulworth Cove a Century +Back</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page83">83</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Bygone Occasion</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page85">85</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Two Serenades</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page86">86</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagexxi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxi</span><span class="smcap">The Wedding Morning</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page89">89</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">End of the Year</span> 1912</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page90">90</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Chimes play “Life’s a +Bumper!”</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page91">91</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">I worked no Wile to meet +You</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page93">93</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">At the Railway Station, +Upway</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page95">95</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Side by Side</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page96">96</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Dream of the City Shopwoman</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page98">98</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Maiden’s Pledge</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page100">100</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Child and the Sage</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page101">101</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Mismet</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page103">103</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">An Autumn Rain-scene</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page105">105</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Meditations on a Holiday</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page107">107</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">An Experience</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page111">111</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Beauty</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page113">113</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Collector cleans his +Picture</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page114">114</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Wood Fire</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page117">117</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Saying Good-bye</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page119">119</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Tune called The +Old-hundred-and-fourth</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page121">121</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Opportunity</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page123">123</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Evelyn G. of Christminster</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page124">124</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Rift</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page126">126</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Voices from Things growing</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page127">127</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Way</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page130">130</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">She did not +turn</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page132">132</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Growth in May</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page133">133</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Children and Sir +Nameless</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page134">134</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">At the Royal Academy</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page136">136</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Her Temple</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page138">138</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagexxii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxii</span><span class="smcap">A Two-years’ +Idyll</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page139">139</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">By Henstridge Cross at the +Year’s End</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page141">141</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Penance</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page143">143</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">I look in her +Face</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page145">145</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">After the War</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page146">146</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">If you had +known</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page148">148</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Chapel-Organist</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page150">150</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Fetching Her</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page157">157</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">Could I but +will</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page159">159</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">She revisits alone the Church of her +Marriage</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page161">161</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">At the Entering of the New +Year</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page163">163</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">They would not come</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page165">165</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">After a Romantic Day</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page167">167</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Two Wives</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page168">168</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">I knew a Lady</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page170">170</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A House with a History</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page171">171</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Procession of Dead Days</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page173">173</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">He follows Himself</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page176">176</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Singing Woman</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page178">178</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Without, not within Her</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page179">179</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">O I won’t lead a Homely +Life</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page180">180</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">In the Small Hours</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page181">181</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Little Old Table</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page183">183</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Vagg Hollow</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page184">184</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Dream is—which</span>?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page186">186</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Country Wedding</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page187">187</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">First or Last</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page190">190</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Lonely Days</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page191">191</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagexxiii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxiii</span>“<span class="smcap">What did it +mean</span>?”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page194">194</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">At the Dinner-table</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page196">196</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Marble Tablet</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page198">198</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Master and the Leaves</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page199">199</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Last Words to a Dumb Friend</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page201">201</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Drizzling Easter morning</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page204">204</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On One who lived and died where He was +born</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page205">205</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Second Night</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page207">207</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">She who saw not</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page210">210</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Old Workman</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page212">212</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Sailor’s Mother</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page214">214</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Outside the Casement</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page216">216</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Passer-by</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page218">218</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">I was the +Midmost</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page220">220</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Sound in the Night</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page221">221</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On a Discovered Curl of +Hair</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page226">226</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">An Old Likeness</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page227">227</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Her Apotheosis</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page229">229</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">Sacred to the +Memory</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page230">230</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To a Well-named Dwelling</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page231">231</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Whipper-in</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page232">232</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Military Appointment</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page234">234</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Milestone by the +Rabbit-burrow</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page236">236</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Lament of the +Looking-glass</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page237">237</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Cross-currents</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page238">238</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Old Neighbour and the +New</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page240">240</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Chosen</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page241">241</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Inscription</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page244">244</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagexxiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxiv</span><span class="smcap">The Marble-streeted +Town</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page251">251</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Woman driving</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page252">252</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Woman’s Trust</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page254">254</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Best Times</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page256">256</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Casual Acquaintance</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page258">258</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Intra Sepulchrum</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page260">260</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Whitewashed Wall</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page262">262</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Just the Same</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page264">264</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Last Time</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page265">265</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Seven Times</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page266">266</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Sun’s Last Look on the +Country Girl</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page269">269</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">In a London Flat</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page270">270</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Drawing Details in an Old +Church</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page272">272</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Rake-hell muses</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page273">273</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Colour</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page277">277</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Murmurs in the Gloom</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page279">279</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Epitaph</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page281">281</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">An Ancient to Ancients</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page282">282</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">After reading psalms xxxix., +xl.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page285">285</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Surview</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page287">287</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +1</span>WEATHERS</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">This</span> is the weather +the cuckoo likes,<br /> + And so do I;<br /> +When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,<br /> + And nestlings fly:<br /> +And the little brown nightingale bills his best,<br /> +And they sit outside at “The Travellers’ +Rest,”<br /> +And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest, <br /> +And citizens dream of the south and west,<br /> + And so do I.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry">This is the weather the shepherd shuns, <br /> + And so do I;<br /> +When beeches drip in browns and duns, <br /> + And thresh, and ply;<br /> +<a name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 2</span>And hill-hid +tides throb, throe on throe,<br /> +And meadow rivulets overflow,<br /> +And drops on gate-bars hang in a row,<br /> +And rooks in families homeward go, <br /> + And so do I.</p> +<h2><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>THE MAID +OF KEINTON MANDEVILLE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(A TRIBUTE TO SIR H. BISHOP)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">hear</span> that maiden +still<br /> +Of Keinton Mandeville<br /> +Singing, in flights that played<br /> +As wind-wafts through us all,<br /> +Till they made our mood a thrall<br /> +To their aery rise and fall,<br /> + “Should he upbraid.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Rose-necked, in sky-gray gown,<br /> +From a stage in Stower Town<br /> +Did she sing, and singing smile<br /> +As she blent that dexterous voice<br /> +With the ditty of her choice,<br /> +And banished our annoys <br /> + Thereawhile.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +4</span>One with such song had power<br /> +To wing the heaviest hour<br /> +Of him who housed with her.<br /> +Who did I never knew<br /> +When her spoused estate ondrew,<br /> +And her warble flung its woo<br /> + In his ear.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, she’s a beldame now,<br /> +Time-trenched on cheek and brow,<br /> +Whom I once heard as a maid<br /> +From Keinton Mandeville<br /> +Of matchless scope and skill<br /> +Sing, with smile and swell and trill,<br /> + “Should he upbraid!”</p> +<p>1915 or 1916.</p> +<h2><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>SUMMER +SCHEMES</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> friendly summer +calls again,<br /> + Calls again<br /> +Her little fifers to these hills,<br /> +We’ll go—we two—to that arched fane<br /> +Of leafage where they prime their bills<br /> +Before they start to flood the plain<br /> +With quavers, minims, shakes, and trills.<br /> + “—We’ll go,” I sing; but who +shall say<br /> + What may not chance before that day!</p> +<p class="poetry">And we shall see the waters spring,<br /> + Waters spring<br /> +From chinks the scrubby copses crown;<br /> +And we shall trace their oncreeping<br /> +To where the cascade tumbles down<br /> +And sends the bobbing growths aswing,<br /> +And ferns not quite but almost drown. <br /> + “—We shall,” I say; but who may +sing<br /> + Of what another moon will bring!</p> +<h2><a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +6</span>EPEISODIA</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Past</span> the hills that +peep<br /> +Where the leaze is smiling,<br /> +On and on beguiling<br /> +Crisply-cropping sheep;<br /> +Under boughs of brushwood<br /> +Linking tree and tree<br /> +In a shade of lushwood, <br /> + There caressed we!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry">Hemmed by city walls<br /> +That outshut the sunlight,<br /> +In a foggy dun light,<br /> +Where the footstep falls<br /> +With a pit-pat wearisome<br /> +In its cadency<br /> +On the flagstones drearisome <br /> + There pressed we!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page7"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 7</span>III</p> +<p class="poetry">Where in wild-winged crowds<br /> +Blown birds show their whiteness<br /> +Up against the lightness<br /> +Of the clammy clouds;<br /> +By the random river<br /> +Pushing to the sea,<br /> +Under bents that quiver <br /> + There rest we.</p> +<h2><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +8</span>FAINTHEART IN A RAILWAY TRAIN</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">At</span> nine in the +morning there passed a church,<br /> +At ten there passed me by the sea,<br /> +At twelve a town of smoke and smirch,<br /> +At two a forest of oak and birch, <br /> + And then, on a platform, she:</p> +<p class="poetry">A radiant stranger, who saw not me.<br /> +I queried, “Get out to her do I dare?”<br /> +But I kept my seat in my search for a plea,<br /> +And the wheels moved on. O could it but be<br /> + That I had alighted there!</p> +<h2><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>AT +MOONRISE AND ONWARDS</h2> +<p class="poetry"> I <span +class="smcap">thought</span> you a fire<br /> + On Heron-Plantation Hill, <br /> +Dealing out mischief the most dire<br /> + To the chattels of men of hire <br /> + There in their vill.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But by and +by<br /> + You turned a yellow-green,<br /> +Like a large glow-worm in the sky; <br /> + And then I could descry<br /> + Your mood and mien.</p> +<p class="poetry"> How well I +know<br /> + Your furtive feminine shape! <br /> +As if reluctantly you show<br /> + You nude of cloud, and but by favour throw<br /> + Aside its drape . . .</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a +name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>—How +many a year<br /> + Have you kept pace with me,<br /> +Wan Woman of the waste up there, <br /> + Behind a hedge, or the bare<br /> + Bough of a tree!</p> +<p class="poetry"> No novelty +are you,<br /> + O Lady of all my time,<br /> +Veering unbid into my view<br /> + Whether I near Death’s mew, <br /> + Or Life’s top cyme!</p> +<h2><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>THE +GARDEN SEAT</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Its</span> former green is +blue and thin,<br /> +And its once firm legs sink in and in; <br /> +Soon it will break down unaware, <br /> +Soon it will break down unaware.</p> +<p class="poetry">At night when reddest flowers are black<br /> +Those who once sat thereon come back;<br /> +Quite a row of them sitting there,<br /> +Quite a row of them sitting there.</p> +<p class="poetry">With them the seat does not break down,<br /> +Nor winter freeze them, nor floods drown,<br /> +For they are as light as upper air,<br /> +They are as light as upper air!</p> +<h2><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +12</span>BARTHÉLÉMON AT VAUXHALL</h2> +<p>François Hippolite Barthélémon, +first-fiddler at Vauxhall Gardens, composed what was probably the +most popular morning hymn-tune ever written. It was +formerly sung, full-voiced, every Sunday in most churches, to +Bishop Ken’s words, but is now seldom heard.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">He</span> said: +“Awake my soul, and with the sun,” . . .<br /> +And paused upon the bridge, his eyes due east,<br /> +Where was emerging like a full-robed priest<br /> +The irradiate globe that vouched the dark as done.</p> +<p class="poetry">It lit his face—the weary face of one<br +/> +Who in the adjacent gardens charged his string,<br /> +Nightly, with many a tuneful tender thing, <br /> +Till stars were weak, and dancing hours outrun.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +13</span>And then were threads of matin music spun<br /> +In trial tones as he pursued his way:<br /> +“This is a morn,” he murmured, “well begun:<br +/> +This strain to Ken will count when I am clay!”</p> +<p class="poetry">And count it did; till, caught by echoing +lyres,<br /> +It spread to galleried naves and mighty quires.</p> +<h2><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +14</span>“I SOMETIMES THINK”<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(FOR F. E. H.)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">sometimes</span> think as +here I sit <br /> + Of things I have done, <br /> +Which seemed in doing not unfit<br /> + To face the sun:<br /> +Yet never a soul has paused a whit <br /> + On such—not one.</p> +<p class="poetry">There was that eager strenuous press <br /> + To sow good seed;<br /> +There was that saving from distress <br /> + In the nick of need;<br /> +There were those words in the wilderness:<br /> + Who cared to heed?</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet can this be full true, or no? <br /> + For one did care,<br /> +And, spiriting into my house, to, fro, <br /> + Like wind on the stair,<br /> +Cares still, heeds all, and will, even though <br /> + I may despair.</p> +<h2><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +15</span>JEZREEL<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">ON ITS SEIZURE BY THE ENGLISH UNDER +ALLENBY, SEPTEMBER 1918</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Did</span> they catch as it +were in a Vision at shut of the day—<br /> +When their cavalry smote through the ancient Esdraelon Plain,<br +/> +And they crossed where the Tishbite stood forth in his +enemy’s way—<br /> +His gaunt mournful Shade as he bade the King haste off amain?</p> +<p class="poetry">On war-men at this end of time—even on +Englishmen’s eyes—<br /> +Who slay with their arms of new might in that long-ago place,<br +/> +Flashed he who drove furiously? . . . Ah, did the phantom +arise<br /> +Of that queen, of that proud Tyrian woman who painted her +face?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +16</span>Faintly marked they the words “Throw her +down!” rise from Night eerily,<br /> +Spectre-spots of the blood of her body on some rotten wall?<br /> +And the thin note of pity that came: “A King’s +daughter is she,”<br /> +As they passed where she trodden was once by the chargers’ +footfall?</p> +<p class="poetry">Could such be the hauntings of men of to-day, +at the cease<br /> +Of pursuit, at the dusk-hour, ere slumber their senses could +seal?<br /> +Enghosted seers, kings—one on horseback who asked “Is +it peace?” . . .<br /> +Yea, strange things and spectral may men have beheld in +Jezreel!</p> +<p><i>September</i> 24, 1918.</p> +<h2><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>A +JOG-TROT PAIR</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Who</span> were the twain that trod this track<br +/> + So many times together<br /> + Hither and +back,<br /> +In spells of certain and uncertain weather?</p> +<p class="poetry"> Commonplace in conduct +they<br /> + Who wandered to and fro here <br +/> + Day by day:<br +/> +Two that few dwellers troubled themselves to know here.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The very gravel-path was +prim<br /> + That daily they would follow:<br +/> + Borders trim:<br +/> +Never a wayward sprout, or hump, or hollow.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page18"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 18</span>Trite usages in tamest style<br /> + Had tended to their plighting. <br +/> + +“It’s just worth while,<br /> +Perhaps,” they had said. “And saves much sad +good-nighting.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> And petty seemed the +happenings<br /> + That ministered to their +joyance:<br /> + Simple +things,<br /> +Onerous to satiate souls, increased their buoyance.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Who could those common people +be, <br /> + Of days the plainest, barest?<br +/> + They were we;<br +/> +Yes; happier than the cleverest, smartest, rarest.</p> +<h2><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +19</span>“THE CURTAINS NOW ARE DRAWN”<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(SONG)</span></h2> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">The</span> curtains now are drawn,<br /> + And the spindrift strikes the glass,<br /> + Blown up the jagged pass<br /> + By the surly salt sou’-west,<br /> + And the sneering glare is gone<br /> + Behind the yonder crest,<br /> + While she sings to me:<br /> +“O the dream that thou art my Love, be it thine,<br /> +And the dream that I am thy Love, be it mine,<br /> +And death may come, but loving is divine.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>II</p> +<p class="poetry"> I stand here in the rain,<br +/> + With its smite upon her stone,<br /> + And the grasses that have grown<br /> + Over women, children, men,<br /> + And their texts that “Life is vain”;<br +/> + But I hear the notes as when<br /> + Once she sang to me:<br /> +“O the dream that thou art my Love, be it thine,<br /> +And the dream that I am thy Love, be it mine,<br /> +And death may come, but loving is divine.”</p> +<p>1913.</p> +<h3><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +21</span>“ACCORDING TO THE MIGHTY WORKING”</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> moiling seems +at cease<br /> + In the vague void of night-time, <br /> + And heaven’s wide roomage stormless <br /> + Between the dusk and light-time, <br /> + And fear at last is formless,<br /> +We call the allurement Peace.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry">Peace, this hid riot, Change,<br /> + This revel of quick-cued mumming,<br /> + This never truly being,<br /> + This evermore becoming,<br /> + This spinner’s wheel onfleeing <br /> +Outside perception’s range.</p> +<p>1917.</p> +<h2><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +22</span>“I WAS NOT HE”<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(SONG)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"> I <span +class="smcap">was</span> not he—the man<br /> +Who used to pilgrim to your gate, <br /> +At whose smart step you grew elate,<br /> + And rosed, as maidens can,<br /> + For a brief span.</p> +<p class="poetry"> It was not I who sang<br /> +Beside the keys you touched so true <br /> +With note-bent eyes, as if with you<br /> + It counted not whence sprang <br /> + The voice that rang . . .</p> +<p class="poetry"> Yet though my destiny<br /> +It was to miss your early sweet, <br /> +You still, when turned to you my feet,<br /> + Had sweet enough to be<br /> + A prize for me!</p> +<h2><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>THE +WEST-OF-WESSEX GIRL</h2> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">very</span> +West-of-Wessex girl, <br /> + As blithe as blithe could be,<br /> + Was once well-known to me,<br /> +And she would laud her native town, <br /> + And hope and hope that we<br /> +Might sometime study up and down <br /> + Its charms in company.</p> +<p class="poetry">But never I squired my Wessex girl <br /> + In jaunts to Hoe or street<br /> + When hearts were high in beat, <br /> +Nor saw her in the marbled ways<br /> + Where market-people meet<br /> +That in her bounding early days <br /> + Were friendly with her feet.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet now my West-of-Wessex girl, <br /> + When midnight hammers slow <br /> + From Andrew’s, blow by blow,<br /> +<a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>As phantom +draws me by the hand <br /> + To the place—Plymouth Hoe—<br /> +Where side by side in life, as planned, <br /> + We never were to go!</p> +<p>Begun in Plymouth, <i>March</i> 1913.</p> +<h2><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +25</span>WELCOME HOME</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span class="smcap">To</span> +my native place<br /> + Bent upon returning,<br /> + Bosom all day burning<br /> + To be where my race<br /> +Well were known, ’twas much with me <br /> +There to dwell in amity.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Folk had sought their +beds,<br /> + But I hailed: to view me<br /> + Under the moon, out to me<br /> + Several pushed their heads, <br /> +And to each I told my name, <br /> +Plans, and that therefrom I came.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Did you? . . . +Ah, ’tis true <br /> + I once heard, back a long time, <br /> + Here had spent his young time, <br /> + Some such man as you . . .<br /> +Good-night.” The casement closed again,<br /> +And I was left in the frosty lane.</p> +<h2><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>GOING +AND STAYING</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> moving +sun-shapes on the spray, <br /> +The sparkles where the brook was flowing,<br /> +Pink faces, plightings, moonlit May,<br /> +These were the things we wished would stay;<br /> + But they were going.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry">Seasons of blankness as of snow,<br /> +The silent bleed of a world decaying,<br /> +The moan of multitudes in woe,<br /> +These were the things we wished would go;<br /> + But they were staying.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">III</p> +<p class="poetry">Then we looked closelier at Time,<br /> +And saw his ghostly arms revolving<br /> +To sweep off woeful things with prime,<br /> +Things sinister with things sublime<br /> + Alike dissolving.</p> +<h2><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>READ +BY MOONLIGHT</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">paused</span> to read a +letter of hers<br /> + By the moon’s cold shine,<br /> +Eyeing it in the tenderest way,<br /> +And edging it up to catch each ray <br /> + Upon her light-penned line.<br /> +I did not know what years would flow <br /> + Of her life’s span and mine<br /> +Ere I read another letter of hers <br /> + By the moon’s cold shine!</p> +<p class="poetry">I chance now on the last of hers, <br /> + By the moon’s cold shine;<br /> +It is the one remaining page <br /> +Out of the many shallow and sage <br /> + Whereto she set her sign.<br /> +Who could foresee there were to be <br /> + Such letters of pain and pine<br /> +Ere I should read this last of hers <br /> + By the moon’s cold shine!</p> +<h2><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>AT A +HOUSE IN HAMPSTEAD<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">SOMETIME THE DWELLING OF JOHN +KEATS</span></h2> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">poet</span>, come you +haunting here<br /> +Where streets have stolen up all around,<br /> +And never a nightingale pours one <br /> + Full-throated sound?</p> +<p class="poetry">Drawn from your drowse by the Seven famed +Hills,<br /> +Thought you to find all just the same <br /> +Here shining, as in hours of old,<br /> + If you but came?</p> +<p class="poetry">What will you do in your surprise<br /> +At seeing that changes wrought in Rome<br /> +Are wrought yet more on the misty slope <br /> + One time your home?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +29</span>Will you wake wind-wafts on these stairs?<br /> +Swing the doors open noisily?<br /> +Show as an umbraged ghost beside <br /> + Your ancient tree?</p> +<p class="poetry">Or will you, softening, the while <br /> +You further and yet further look, <br /> +Learn that a laggard few would fain<br /> + Preserve your nook? . . .</p> +<p class="poetry">—Where the Piazza steps incline, <br /> +And catch late light at eventide, <br /> +I once stood, in that Rome, and thought,<br /> + “’Twas here he died.”</p> +<p class="poetry">I drew to a violet-sprinkled spot, <br /> +Where day and night a pyramid keeps <br /> +Uplifted its white hand, and said,<br /> + “’Tis there he sleeps.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Pleasanter now it is to hold <br /> +That here, where sang he, more of him <br /> +Remains than where he, tuneless, cold,<br /> + Passed to the dim.</p> +<p><i>July</i> 1920.</p> +<h2><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>A +WOMAN’S FANCY</h2> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Ah</span> Madam; +you’ve indeed come back here?<br /> + ’Twas sad—your husband’s so swift +death,<br /> +And you away! You shouldn’t have left him:<br /> + It hastened his last +breath.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Dame, I am not the lady you think me; +<br /> + I know not her, nor know her name;<br /> +I’ve come to lodge here—a friendless woman;<br /> + My health my only aim.”</p> +<p class="poetry">She came; she lodged. Wherever she +rambled<br /> + They held her as no other than<br /> +The lady named; and told how her husband <br /> + Had died a forsaken man.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +31</span>So often did they call her thuswise <br /> + Mistakenly, by that man’s name,<br /> +So much did they declare about him, <br /> + That his past form and fame</p> +<p class="poetry">Grew on her, till she pitied his sorrow <br /> + As if she truly had been the cause—<br /> +Yea, his deserter; and came to wonder<br /> + What mould of man he was.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Tell me my history!” would exclaim +she;<br /> + “<i>Our</i> history,” she said +mournfully.<br /> +“But <i>you</i> know, surely, Ma’am?” they +would answer,<br /> + Much in perplexity.</p> +<p class="poetry">Curious, she crept to his grave one evening, +<br /> + And a second time in the dusk of the morrow;<br /> +Then a third time, with crescent emotion <br /> + Like a bereaved wife’s +sorrow.</p> +<p class="poetry">No gravestone rose by the rounded hillock; <br +/> + —“I marvel why this is?” she +said.<br /> +—“He had no kindred, Ma’am, but you +near.”<br /> + —She set a stone at his +head.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +32</span>She learnt to dream of him, and told them:<br /> + “In slumber often uprises he,<br /> +And says: ‘I am joyed that, after all, Dear,<br /> + You’ve not deserted +me!”</p> +<p class="poetry">At length died too this kinless woman, <br /> + As he had died she had grown to crave;<br /> +And at her dying she besought them <br /> + To bury her in his grave.</p> +<p class="poetry">Such said, she had paused; until she added:<br +/> + “Call me by his name on the stone, <br /> +As I were, first to last, his dearest,<br /> + Not she who left him +lone!”</p> +<p class="poetry">And this they did. And so it became there +<br /> + That, by the strength of a tender whim,<br /> +The stranger was she who bore his name there,<br /> + Not she who wedded him.</p> +<h2><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span>HER +SONG</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">sang</span> that song on +Sunday, <br /> + To witch an idle while,<br /> +I sang that song on Monday, <br /> + As fittest to beguile;<br /> +I sang it as the year outwore, <br /> + And the new slid in;<br /> +I thought not what might shape before <br /> + Another would begin.</p> +<p class="poetry">I sang that song in summer, <br /> + All unforeknowingly,<br /> +To him as a new-comer<br /> + From regions strange to me:<br /> +I sang it when in afteryears<br /> + The shades stretched out,<br /> +And paths were faint; and flocking fears <br /> + Brought cup-eyed care and doubt.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +34</span>Sings he that song on Sundays <br /> + In some dim land afar,<br /> +On Saturdays, or Mondays,<br /> + As when the evening star<br /> +Glimpsed in upon his bending face <br /> + And my hanging hair,<br /> +And time untouched me with a trace <br /> + Of soul-smart or despair?</p> +<h2><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>A WET +AUGUST</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Nine</span> drops of water +bead the jessamine,<br /> +And nine-and-ninety smear the stones and tiles:<br /> +—’Twas not so in that August—full-rayed, +fine—<br /> +When we lived out-of-doors, sang songs, strode miles.</p> +<p class="poetry">Or was there then no noted radiancy <br /> +Of summer? Were dun clouds, a dribbling bough,<br /> +Gilt over by the light I bore in me, <br /> +And was the waste world just the same as now?</p> +<p class="poetry">It can have been so: yea, that threatenings<br +/> +Of coming down-drip on the sunless gray,<br /> +By the then possibilities in things<br /> +Were wrought more bright than brightest skies to-day.</p> +<p>1920.</p> +<h2><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 36</span>THE +DISSEMBLERS</h2> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">It</span> was not +you I came to please,<br /> + Only myself,” flipped she;<br /> +“I like this spot of phantasies,<br /> + And thought you far from me.”<br /> +But O, he was the secret spell <br /> + That led her to the lea!</p> +<p class="poetry">“It was not she who shaped my ways, <br +/> + Or works, or thoughts,” he said.<br /> +“I scarcely marked her living days, <br /> + Or missed her much when dead.”<br /> +But O, his joyance knew its knell <br /> + When daisies hid her head!</p> +<h2><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>TO A +LADY PLAYING AND SINGING IN THE MORNING</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Joyful</span> lady, sing! <br /> +And I will lurk here listening, <br /> +Though nought be done, and nought begun, <br /> +And work-hours swift are scurrying.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Sing, O lady, still! +<br /> +Aye, I will wait each note you trill, <br /> +Though duties due that press to do <br /> +This whole day long I unfulfil.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “—It is an +evening tune;<br /> +One not designed to waste the noon,”<br /> +You say. I know: time bids me go—<br /> +For daytide passes too, too soon!</p> +<p class="poetry"> But let indulgence be,<br /> +This once, to my rash ecstasy:<br /> +When sounds nowhere that carolled air<br /> +My idled morn may comfort me!</p> +<h2><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +38</span>“A MAN WAS DRAWING NEAR TO ME”</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">On</span> that gray night +of mournful drone, <br /> +A part from aught to hear, to see, <br /> +I dreamt not that from shires unknown<br /> + In gloom, alone,<br /> + By Halworthy,<br /> +A man was drawing near to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’d no concern at anything, <br /> +No sense of coming pull-heart play; <br /> +Yet, under the silent outspreading<br /> + Of even’s wing<br /> + Where Otterham lay,<br /> +A man was riding up my way.</p> +<p class="poetry">I thought of nobody—not of one, <br /> +But only of trifles—legends, ghosts—<br /> +Though, on the moorland dim and dun<br /> + That travellers shun<br /> + About these coasts,<br /> +The man had passed Tresparret Posts.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +39</span>There was no light at all inland, <br /> +Only the seaward pharos-fire, <br /> +Nothing to let me understand<br /> + That hard at hand<br /> + By Hennett Byre<br /> +The man was getting nigh and nigher.</p> +<p class="poetry">There was a rumble at the door, <br /> +A draught disturbed the drapery, <br /> +And but a minute passed before,<br /> + With gaze that bore<br /> + My destiny,<br /> +The man revealed himself to me.</p> +<h2><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>THE +STRANGE HOUSE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(MAX GATE, A.D. 2000)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry">“I <span class="smcap">hear</span> the +piano playing—<br /> + Just as a ghost might play.”<br /> +“—O, but what are you saying?<br /> + There’s no piano to-day;<br /> +Their old one was sold and broken; <br /> + Years past it went amiss.”<br /> +“—I heard it, or shouldn’t have spoken:<br /> + A strange house, this!</p> +<p class="poetry">“I catch some undertone here,<br /> + From some one out of sight.”<br /> +“—Impossible; we are alone here,<br /> + And shall be through the night.”<br /> +“—The parlour-door—what stirred it?”<br +/> + “—No one: no soul’s in +range.”<br /> +“—But, anyhow, I heard it,<br /> + And it seems strange!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +41</span>“Seek my own room I cannot—<br /> + A figure is on the stair!”<br /> +“—What figure? Nay, I scan not <br /> + Any one lingering there.<br /> +A bough outside is waving, <br /> + And that’s its shade by the moon.”<br /> +“—Well, all is strange! I am craving <br /> + Strength to leave soon.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“—Ah, maybe you’ve some +vision <br /> + Of showings beyond our sphere;<br /> +Some sight, sense, intuition <br /> + Of what once happened here?<br /> +The house is old; they’ve hinted <br /> + It once held two love-thralls,<br /> +And they may have imprinted <br /> + Their dreams on its walls?</p> +<p class="poetry">“They were—I think ’twas told +me—<br /> + Queer in their works and ways;<br /> +The teller would often hold me <br /> + With weird tales of those days.<br /> +Some folk can not abide here, <br /> + But we—we do not care<br /> +Who loved, laughed, wept, or died here, <br /> + Knew joy, or despair.”</p> +<h2><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +42</span>“AS ’TWERE TO-NIGHT”<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(SONG)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">As</span> ’twere +to-night, in the brief space<br /> + Of a far eventime,<br /> + My spirit rang achime<br /> +At vision of a girl of grace;<br /> +As ’twere to-night, in the brief space<br /> + Of a far eventime.</p> +<p class="poetry">As ’twere at noontide of to-morrow <br /> + I airily walked and talked,<br /> + And wondered as I walked<br /> +What it could mean, this soar from sorrow; <br /> +As ’twere at noontide of to-morrow<br /> + I airily walked and talked.</p> +<p class="poetry">As ’twere at waning of this week <br /> + Broke a new life on me;<br /> + Trancings of bliss to be<br /> +In some dim dear land soon to seek; <br /> +As ’twere at waning of this week<br /> + Broke a new life on me!</p> +<h2><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>THE +CONTRETEMPS</h2> +<p class="poetry"> A <span +class="smcap">forward</span> rush by the lamp in the gloom,<br /> + And we clasped, and almost kissed; +<br /> + But she was not the woman whom <br /> + I had promised to meet in the thawing brume<br /> +On that harbour-bridge; nor was I he of her tryst.</p> +<p class="poetry"> So loosening from me swift +she said:<br /> + “O why, why feign to be<br +/> + The one I had meant!—to whom I have sped<br /> + To fly with, being so sorrily wed!”<br /> +—’Twas thus and thus that she upbraided me.</p> +<p class="poetry"> My assignation had struck +upon <br /> + Some others’ like it, I +found.<br /> + And her lover rose on the night anon; <br /> + And then her husband entered on <br /> +The lamplit, snowflaked, sloppiness around.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page44"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 44</span>“Take her and welcome, +man!” he cried:<br /> + “I wash my hands of her.<br +/> + I’ll find me twice as good a bride!”<br +/> + —All this to me, whom he had eyed, <br /> +Plainly, as his wife’s planned deliverer.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And next the lover: +“Little I knew, <br /> + Madam, you had a third!<br /> + Kissing here in my very view!”<br /> + —Husband and lover then withdrew.<br /> +I let them; and I told them not they erred.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Why not? Well, there +faced she and I—<br /> + Two strangers who’d kissed, +or near,<br /> + Chancewise. To see stand weeping by<br /> + A woman once embraced, will try<br /> +The tension of a man the most austere.</p> +<p class="poetry"> So it began; and I was young, +<br /> + She pretty, by the lamp,<br /> + As flakes came waltzing down among<br /> + The waves of her clinging hair, that hung <br /> +Heavily on her temples, dark and damp.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And there alone still stood +we two; <br /> + She one cast off for me,<br /> + Or so it seemed: while night ondrew,<br /> + Forcing a parley what should do<br /> +We twain hearts caught in one catastrophe.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page45"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 45</span>In stranded souls a common strait <br +/> + Wakes latencies unknown,<br /> + Whose impulse may precipitate<br /> + A life-long leap. The hour was late,<br /> +And there was the Jersey boat with its funnel agroan.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Is wary walking worth +much pother?”<br /> + It grunted, as still it stayed.<br +/> + “One pairing is as good as another<br /> + Where all is venture! Take each other, <br /> +And scrap the oaths that you have aforetime made.” . . +.</p> +<p class="poetry"> —Of the four involved +there walks but one<br /> + On earth at this late day.<br /> + And what of the chapter so begun?<br /> + In that odd complex what was done?<br /> + Well; happiness comes in full to none:<br /> +Let peace lie on lulled lips: I will not say.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Weymouth</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>A +GENTLEMAN’S EPITAPH ON HIMSELF AND A LADY, WHO WERE BURIED +TOGETHER</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">dwelt</span> in the shade +of a city, <br /> + She far by the sea, <br /> +With folk perhaps good, gracious, witty;<br /> + But never with me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her form on the ballroom’s smooth +flooring <br /> + I never once met,<br /> +To guide her with accents adoring <br /> + Through Weippert’s “First Set.” <a +name="citation46"></a><a href="#footnote46" +class="citation">[46]</a></p> +<p class="poetry">I spent my life’s seasons with pale ones +<br /> + In Vanity Fair,<br /> +And she enjoyed hers among hale ones <br /> + In salt-smelling air.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +47</span>Maybe she had eyes of deep colour, <br /> + Maybe they were blue,<br /> +Maybe as she aged they got duller; <br /> + That never I knew.</p> +<p class="poetry">She may have had lips like the coral, <br /> + But I never kissed them,<br /> +Saw pouting, nor curling in quarrel, <br /> + Nor sought for, nor missed them.</p> +<p class="poetry">Not a word passed of love all our lifetime, <br +/> + Between us, nor thrill;<br /> +We’d never a husband-and-wife time, <br /> + For good or for ill.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet as one dust, through bleak days and +vernal,<br /> + Lie I and lies she,<br /> +This never-known lady, eternal <br /> + Companion to me!</p> +<h2><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>THE +OLD GOWN<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(SONG)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">have</span> seen her in +gowns the brightest,<br /> + Of azure, green, and red,<br /> +And in the simplest, whitest,<br /> + Muslined from heel to head;<br /> +I have watched her walking, riding, <br /> + Shade-flecked by a leafy tree,<br /> +Or in fixed thought abiding<br /> + By the foam-fingered sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">In woodlands I have known her,<br /> + When boughs were mourning loud,<br /> +In the rain-reek she has shown her <br /> + Wild-haired and watery-browed.<br /> +And once or twice she has cast me <br /> + As she pomped along the street<br /> +Court-clad, ere quite she had passed me, <br /> + A glance from her chariot-seat.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +49</span>But in my memoried passion <br /> + For evermore stands she<br /> +In the gown of fading fashion <br /> + She wore that night when we,<br /> +Doomed long to part, assembled <br /> + In the snug small room; yea, when<br /> +She sang with lips that trembled, <br /> + “Shall I see his face again?”</p> +<h2><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>A +NIGHT IN NOVEMBER</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">marked</span> when the +weather changed,<br /> +And the panes began to quake,<br /> +And the winds rose up and ranged,<br /> +That night, lying half-awake.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dead leaves blew into my room,<br /> +And alighted upon my bed,<br /> +And a tree declared to the gloom<br /> +Its sorrow that they were shed.</p> +<p class="poetry">One leaf of them touched my hand,<br /> +And I thought that it was you<br /> +There stood as you used to stand,<br /> +And saying at last you knew!</p> +<p>(?) 1913.</p> +<h2><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>A +DUETTIST TO HER PIANOFORTE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">SONG OF SILENCE</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(E. L. H.—H. C. H.)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Since</span> every sound +moves memories,<br /> + How can I play you<br /> +Just as I might if you raised no scene,<br /> +By your ivory rows, of a form between<br /> +My vision and your time-worn sheen, <br /> + As when each day you<br /> +Answered our fingers with ecstasy?<br /> +So it’s hushed, hushed, hushed, you are for me!</p> +<p class="poetry">And as I am doomed to counterchord <br /> + Her notes no more<br /> +In those old things I used to know, <br /> +In a fashion, when we practised so,<br /> +<a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +52</span>“Good-night!—Good-bye!” to your +pleated show<br /> + Of silk, now hoar,<br /> +Each nodding hammer, and pedal and key, <br /> +For dead, dead, dead, you are to me!</p> +<p class="poetry">I fain would second her, strike to her +stroke,<br /> + As when she was by,<br /> +Aye, even from the ancient clamorous “Fall<br /> +Of Paris,” or “Battle of Prague” withal,<br /> +To the “Roving Minstrels,” or “Elfin +Call”<br /> + Sung soft as a sigh:<br /> +But upping ghosts press achefully,<br /> +And mute, mute, mute, you are for me!</p> +<p class="poetry">Should I fling your polyphones, plaints, and +quavers<br /> + Afresh on the air,<br /> +Too quick would the small white shapes be here<br /> +Of the fellow twain of hands so dear;<br /> +And a black-tressed profile, and pale smooth ear;<br /> + —Then how shall I bear<br /> +Such heavily-haunted harmony?<br /> +Nay: hushed, hushed, hushed you are for me!</p> +<h2><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +53</span>“WHERE THREE ROADS JOINED”</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Where</span> three roads +joined it was green and fair,<br /> +And over a gate was the sun-glazed sea,<br /> +And life laughed sweet when I halted there;<br /> +Yet there I never again would be.</p> +<p class="poetry">I am sure those branchways are brooding now,<br +/> +With a wistful blankness upon their face, <br /> +While the few mute passengers notice how <br /> +Spectre-beridden is the place;</p> +<p class="poetry">Which nightly sighs like a laden soul,<br /> +And grieves that a pair, in bliss for a spell<br /> +Not far from thence, should have let it roll<br /> +Away from them down a plumbless well</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +54</span>While the phasm of him who fared starts up,<br /> +And of her who was waiting him sobs from near,<br /> +As they haunt there and drink the wormwood cup<br /> +They filled for themselves when their sky was clear.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yes, I see those roads—now rutted and +bare,<br /> +While over the gate is no sun-glazed sea; <br /> +And though life laughed when I halted there,<br /> +It is where I never again would be.</p> +<h2><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +55</span>“AND THERE WAS A GREAT CALM”<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(ON THE SIGNING OF THE ARMISTICE, Nov. 11, +1918)</span></h2> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> had been years +of Passion—scorching, cold,<br /> +And much Despair, and Anger heaving high,<br /> +Care whitely watching, Sorrows manifold,<br /> +Among the young, among the weak and old,<br /> +And the pensive Spirit of Pity whispered, “Why?”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry">Men had not paused to answer. Foes +distraught<br /> +Pierced the thinned peoples in a brute-like blindness,<br /> +Philosophies that sages long had taught,<br /> +<a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>And +Selflessness, were as an unknown thought,<br /> +And “Hell!” and “Shell!” were yapped at +Lovingkindness.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">III</p> +<p class="poetry">The feeble folk at home had grown full-used<br +/> +To “dug-outs,” “snipers,” +“Huns,” from the war-adept<br /> +In the mornings heard, and at evetides perused;<br /> +To day—dreamt men in millions, when they mused—<br /> +To nightmare-men in millions when they slept.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IV</p> +<p class="poetry">Waking to wish existence timeless, null, <br /> +Sirius they watched above where armies fell;<br /> +He seemed to check his flapping when, in the lull<br /> +Of night a boom came thencewise, like the dull<br /> +Plunge of a stone dropped into some deep well.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page57"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 57</span>V</p> +<p class="poetry">So, when old hopes that earth was bettering +slowly<br /> +Were dead and damned, there sounded “War is done!”<br +/> +One morrow. Said the bereft, and meek, and lowly,<br /> +“Will men some day be given to grace? yea, wholly,<br /> +And in good sooth, as our dreams used to run?”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VI</p> +<p class="poetry">Breathless they paused. Out there men +raised their glance<br /> +To where had stood those poplars lank and lopped,<br /> +As they had raised it through the four years’ dance<br /> +Of Death in the now familiar flats of France;<br /> +And murmured, “Strange, this! How? All firing +stopped?”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VII</p> +<p class="poetry">Aye; all was hushed. The about-to-fire +fired not,<br /> +The aimed-at moved away in trance-lipped song.<br /> +<a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>One +checkless regiment slung a clinching shot<br /> +And turned. The Spirit of Irony smirked out, +“What?<br /> +Spoil peradventures woven of Rage and Wrong?”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VIII</p> +<p class="poetry">Thenceforth no flying fires inflamed the +gray,<br /> +No hurtlings shook the dewdrop from the thorn,<br /> +No moan perplexed the mute bird on the spray;<br /> +Worn horses mused: “We are not whipped to-day”;<br /> +No weft-winged engines blurred the moon’s thin horn.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IX</p> +<p class="poetry">Calm fell. From Heaven distilled a +clemency;<br /> +There was peace on earth, and silence in the sky;<br /> +Some could, some could not, shake off misery:<br /> +The Sinister Spirit sneered: “It had to be!”<br /> +And again the Spirit of Pity whispered, “Why?”</p> +<h2><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +59</span>HAUNTING FINGERS<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">A PHANTASY IN A MUSEUM OF MUSICAL +INSTRUMENTS</span></h2> +<p +class="poetry"> “<span +class="smcap">Are</span> you awake,<br /> + Comrades, this silent night?<br /> + Well ’twere if all of our glossy gluey make<br +/> +Lay in the damp without, and fell to fragments quite!”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “O +viol, my friend,<br /> + I watch, though Phosphor nears,<br +/> + And I fain would drowse away to its utter end<br /> +This dumb dark stowage after our loud melodious years!”</p> +<p class="poetry">And they felt past handlers clutch them, <br /> + Though none was in the room,<br /> +Old players’ dead fingers touch them, <br /> + Shrunk in the tomb.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +60</span>“’Cello, good mate,<br /> + You speak my mind as yours:<br /> + Doomed to this voiceless, crippled, corpselike +state,<br /> +Who, dear to famed Amphion, trapped here, long +endures?”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Once +I could thrill<br /> + The populace through and +through,<br /> + Wake them to passioned pulsings past their +will.” . . .<br /> +(A contra-basso spake so, and the rest sighed anew.)</p> +<p class="poetry">And they felt old muscles travel <br /> + Over their tense contours,<br /> +And with long skill unravel<br /> + Cunningest scores.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “The +tender pat<br /> + Of her aery finger-tips<br /> + Upon me daily—I rejoiced thereat!”<br /> +(Thuswise a harpsicord, as from dampered lips.)</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “My +keys’ white shine,<br /> + Now sallow, met a hand<br /> + Even whiter. . . . Tones of hers fell forth +with mine<br /> +In sowings of sound so sweet no lover could withstand!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +61</span>And its clavier was filmed with fingers <br /> + Like tapering flames—wan, cold—<br /> +Or the nebulous light that lingers<br /> + In charnel mould.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Gayer +than most<br /> + Was I,” reverbed a drum;<br +/> + “The regiments, marchings, throngs, +hurrahs! What a host<br /> +I stirred—even when crape mufflings gagged me well-nigh +dumb!”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Trilled +an aged viol:<br /> + “Much tune have I set +free<br /> + To spur the dance, since my first timid trial<br /> +Where I had birth—far hence, in sun-swept Italy!”</p> +<p class="poetry">And he feels apt touches on him<br /> + From those that pressed him then;<br /> +Who seem with their glance to con him,<br /> + Saying, “Not +again!”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “A +holy calm,”<br /> + Mourned a shawm’s voice +subdued,<br /> + “Steeped my Cecilian rhythms when hymn and +psalm<br /> +Poured from devout souls met in Sabbath sanctitude.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>“I +faced the sock<br /> + Nightly,” twanged a sick +lyre,<br /> + “Over ranked lights! O charm of life in +mock,<br /> +O scenes that fed love, hope, wit, rapture, mirth, +desire!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus they, till each past player<br /> + Stroked thinner and more thin,<br /> +And the morning sky grew grayer <br /> + And day crawled in.</p> +<h2><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>THE +WOMAN I MET</h2> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">stranger</span>, I +threaded sunken-hearted<br /> + A lamp-lit crowd;<br /> +And anon there passed me a soul departed, <br /> + Who mutely bowed.<br /> +In my far-off youthful years I had met her, <br /> +Full-pulsed; but now, no more life’s debtor,<br /> + Onward she slid<br /> + In a shroud that furs half-hid.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Why do you trouble me, dead woman, <br +/> + Trouble me;<br /> +You whom I knew when warm and human?<br /> + —How it be<br /> +That you quitted earth and are yet upon it <br /> +Is, to any who ponder on it,<br /> + Past being read!”<br /> + “Still, it is so,” she said.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +64</span>“These were my haunts in my olden sprightly<br /> + Hours of breath;<br /> +Here I went tempting frail youth nightly <br /> + To their death;<br /> +But you deemed me chaste—me, a tinselled sinner!<br /> +How thought you one with pureness in her <br /> + Could pace this street<br /> + Eyeing some man to greet?</p> +<p class="poetry">“Well; your very simplicity made me love +you<br /> + Mid such town dross,<br /> +Till I set not Heaven itself above you, <br /> + Who grew my Cross;<br /> +For you’d only nod, despite how I sighed for you;<br /> +So you tortured me, who fain would have died for you!<br /> + —What I suffered then<br /> + Would have paid for the sins of ten!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Thus went the days. I feared you +despised me<br /> + To fling me a nod<br /> +Each time, no more: till love chastised me <br /> + As with a rod<br /> +<a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span>That a +fresh bland boy of no assurance<br /> +Should fire me with passion beyond endurance,<br /> + While others all<br /> + I hated, and loathed their call.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I said: ‘It is his mother’s +spirit <br /> + Hovering around<br /> +To shield him, maybe!’ I used to fear it, <br /> + As still I found<br /> +My beauty left no least impression,<br /> +And remnants of pride withheld confession <br /> + Of my true trade<br /> + By speaking; so I delayed.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I said: ‘Perhaps with a costly +flower <br /> + He’ll be beguiled.’<br +/> +I held it, in passing you one late hour, <br /> + To your face: you smiled,<br /> +Keeping step with the throng; though you did not see there<br /> +A single one that rivalled me there! . . .<br /> + Well: it’s all past.<br /> + I died in the Lock at last.”</p> +<p class="poetry">So walked the dead and I together <br /> + The quick among,<br /> +Elbowing our kind of every feather <br /> + Slowly and long;<br /> +<a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>Yea, long +and slowly. That a phantom should stalk there<br /> +With me seemed nothing strange, and talk there<br /> + That winter night<br /> + By flaming jets of light.</p> +<p class="poetry">She showed me Juans who feared their +call-time,<br /> + Guessing their lot;<br /> +She showed me her sort that cursed their fall-time,<br /> + And that did not.<br /> +Till suddenly murmured she: “Now, tell me,<br /> +Why asked you never, ere death befell me, <br /> + To have my love,<br /> + Much as I dreamt thereof?”</p> +<p class="poetry">I could not answer. And she, well +weeting<br /> + All in my heart,<br /> +Said: “God your guardian kept our fleeting<br /> + Forms apart!”<br /> +Sighing and drawing her furs around her <br /> +Over the shroud that tightly bound her,<br /> + With wafts as from clay<br /> + She turned and thinned away.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">London</span>, 1918.</p> +<h2><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +67</span>“IF IT’S EVER SPRING AGAIN”<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(SONG)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">If</span> it’s ever +spring again,<br /> + Spring again,<br /> +I shall go where went I when<br /> +Down the moor-cock splashed, and hen,<br /> +Seeing me not, amid their flounder,<br /> +Standing with my arm around her;<br /> +If it’s ever spring again,<br /> + Spring again,<br /> +I shall go where went I then.</p> +<p class="poetry">If it’s ever summer-time,<br /> + Summer-time,<br /> +With the hay crop at the prime,<br /> +And the cuckoos—two—in rhyme,<br /> +As they used to be, or seemed to,<br /> +We shall do as long we’ve dreamed to,<br /> +If it’s ever summer-time,<br /> + Summer-time,<br /> +With the hay, and bees achime.</p> +<h2><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>THE +TWO HOUSES</h2> +<p +class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">In</span> the heart of night,<br /> + When farers were not near, <br /> + The left house said to the house on the right,<br /> +“I have marked your rise, O smart newcomer here.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Said +the right, cold-eyed:<br /> + “Newcomer here I am,<br /> + Hence haler than you with your cracked old hide,<br +/> +Loose casements, wormy beams, and doors that jam.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Modern +my wood,<br /> + My hangings fair of hue;<br /> + While my windows open as they should, <br /> +And water-pipes thread all my chambers through.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>“Your +gear is gray, <br /> + Your face wears furrows +untold.”<br /> + “—Yours might,” mourned the other, +“if you held, brother,<br /> +The Presences from aforetime that I hold.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “You +have not known<br /> + Men’s lives, deaths, toils, +and teens; <br /> + You are but a heap of stick and stone:<br /> +A new house has no sense of the have-beens.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Void +as a drum<br /> + You stand: I am packed with these, +<br /> + Though, strangely, living dwellers who come<br /> +See not the phantoms all my substance sees!</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Visible +in the morning<br /> + Stand they, when dawn drags in; +<br /> + Visible at night; yet hint or warning<br /> +Of these thin elbowers few of the inmates win.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Babes +new-brought-forth<br /> + Obsess my rooms; +straight-stretched <br /> + Lank corpses, ere outborne to earth; <br /> +Yea, throng they as when first from the ’Byss +upfetched.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>“Dancers and singers <br /> + Throb in me now as once;<br /> + Rich-noted throats and gossamered fingers<br /> +Of heels; the learned in love-lore and the dunce.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Note +here within<br /> + The bridegroom and the bride, <br +/> + Who smile and greet their friends and kin,<br /> +And down my stairs depart for tracks untried.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Where +such inbe,<br /> + A dwelling’s character<br /> + Takes theirs, and a vague semblancy <br /> +To them in all its limbs, and light, and atmosphere.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Yet +the blind folk<br /> + My tenants, who come and go<br /> + In the flesh mid these, with souls unwoke,<br /> +Of such sylph-like surrounders do not know.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “—Will +the day come,”<br /> + Said the new one, awestruck, +faint,<br /> + <a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +71</span>“When I shall lodge shades dim and dumb—<br +/> +And with such spectral guests become acquaint?”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “—That +will it, boy;<br /> + Such shades will people thee, <br +/> + Each in his misery, irk, or joy,<br /> +And print on thee their presences as on me.”</p> +<h2><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>ON +STINSFORD HILL AT MIDNIGHT</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">glimpsed</span> a +woman’s muslined form<br /> + Sing-songing airily<br /> +Against the moon; and still she sang,<br /> + And took no heed of me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Another trice, and I beheld<br /> + What first I had not scanned,<br /> +That now and then she tapped and shook<br /> + A timbrel in her hand.</p> +<p class="poetry">So late the hour, so white her drape,<br /> + So strange the look it lent<br /> +To that blank hill, I could not guess<br /> + What phantastry it meant.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then burst I forth: “Why such from +you?<br /> + Are you so happy now?”<br /> +Her voice swam on; nor did she show<br /> + Thought of me anyhow.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +73</span>I called again: “Come nearer; much<br /> + That kind of note I need!”<br /> +The song kept softening, loudening on,<br /> + In placid calm unheed.</p> +<p class="poetry">“What home is yours now?” then I +said;<br /> + “You seem to have no care.”<br /> +But the wild wavering tune went forth<br /> + As if I had not been there.</p> +<p class="poetry">“This world is dark, and where you +are,”<br /> + I said, “I cannot be!”<br /> +But still the happy one sang on,<br /> + And had no heed of me.</p> +<h2><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>THE +FALLOW DEER AT THE LONELY HOUSE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">One</span> without looks in +to-night<br /> + Through the curtain-chink<br /> +From the sheet of glistening white;<br /> +One without looks in to-night<br /> + As we sit and think<br /> + By the fender-brink.</p> +<p class="poetry">We do not discern those eyes<br /> + Watching in the snow;<br /> +Lit by lamps of rosy dyes<br /> +We do not discern those eyes<br /> + Wondering, aglow,<br /> + Fourfooted, tiptoe.</p> +<h2><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>THE +SELFSAME SONG</h2> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">bird</span> bills the +selfsame song,<br /> +With never a fault in its flow,<br /> +That we listened to here those long<br /> + Long years ago.</p> +<p class="poetry">A pleasing marvel is how<br /> +A strain of such rapturous rote<br /> +Should have gone on thus till now<br /> + Unchanged in a note!</p> +<p class="poetry">—But it’s not the selfsame +bird.—<br /> +No: perished to dust is he . . .<br /> +As also are those who heard<br /> + That song with me.</p> +<h2><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>THE +WANDERER</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> is nobody on +the road<br /> + But I,<br /> +And no beseeming abode<br /> + I can try<br /> +For shelter, so abroad<br /> + I must lie.</p> +<p class="poetry">The stars feel not far up,<br /> + And to be<br /> +The lights by which I sup<br /> + Glimmeringly,<br /> +Set out in a hollow cup<br /> + Over me.</p> +<p class="poetry">They wag as though they were<br /> + Panting for joy<br /> +Where they shine, above all care,<br /> + And annoy,<br /> +And demons of despair—<br /> + Life’s alloy.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +77</span>Sometimes outside the fence<br /> + Feet swing past,<br /> +Clock-like, and then go hence,<br /> + Till at last<br /> +There is a silence, dense,<br /> + Deep, and vast.</p> +<p class="poetry">A wanderer, witch-drawn<br /> + To and fro,<br /> +To-morrow, at the dawn,<br /> + On I go,<br /> +And where I rest anon<br /> + Do not know!</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet it’s meet—this bed of hay<br /> + And roofless plight;<br /> +For there’s a house of clay,<br /> + My own, quite,<br /> +To roof me soon, all day<br /> + And all night.</p> +<h2><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>A WIFE +COMES BACK</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">This</span> is the story a +man told me<br /> + Of his life’s one day of dreamery.</p> +<p class="poetry"> A woman came into his room<br +/> +Between the dawn and the creeping day:<br /> +She was the years-wed wife from whom<br /> +He had parted, and who lived far away,<br /> + As if strangers they.</p> +<p class="poetry"> He wondered, and as she +stood<br /> +She put on youth in her look and air,<br /> +And more was he wonderstruck as he viewed<br /> +Her form and flesh bloom yet more fair<br /> + While he watched her there;</p> +<p class="poetry"> Till she freshed to the pink +and brown<br /> +That were hers on the night when first they met,<br /> +<a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>When she +was the charm of the idle town<br /> +And he the pick of the club-fire set . . .<br /> + His eyes grew wet,</p> +<p class="poetry"> And he stretched his arms: +“Stay—rest!—”<br /> +He cried. “Abide with me so, my own!”<br /> +But his arms closed in on his hard bare breast;<br /> +She had vanished with all he had looked upon<br /> + Of her beauty: gone.</p> +<p class="poetry"> He clothed, and drew +downstairs,<br /> +But she was not in the house, he found;<br /> +And he passed out under the leafy pairs<br /> +Of the avenue elms, and searched around<br /> + To the park-pale bound.</p> +<p class="poetry"> He mounted, and rode till +night<br /> +To the city to which she had long withdrawn,<br /> +The vision he bore all day in his sight<br /> +Being her young self as pondered on<br /> + In the dim of dawn.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “—The lady here +long ago—<br /> +Is she now here?—young—or such age as she +is?”<br /> +<a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +80</span>“—She is still +here.”—“Thank God. Let her know;<br /> +She’ll pardon a comer so late as this<br /> + Whom she’d fain not miss.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> She received him—an +ancient dame,<br /> +Who hemmed, with features frozen and numb,<br /> +“How strange!—I’d almost forgotten your +name!—<br /> +A call just now—is troublesome;<br /> + Why did you come?”</p> +<h2><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>A +YOUNG MAN’S EXHORTATION</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Call</span> off your eyes from care<br /> +By some determined deftness; put forth joys<br /> +Dear as excess without the core that cloys,<br /> + And charm Life’s lourings fair.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Exalt and crown the hour<br +/> +That girdles us, and fill it full with glee,<br /> +Blind glee, excelling aught could ever be<br /> + Were heedfulness in power.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Send up such touching +strains<br /> +That limitless recruits from Fancy’s pack<br /> +Shall rush upon your tongue, and tender back<br /> + All that your soul contains.</p> +<p class="poetry"> For what do we know best?<br +/> +That a fresh love-leaf crumpled soon will dry,<br /> +And that men moment after moment die,<br /> + Of all scope dispossest.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page82"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 82</span>If I have seen one thing<br /> +It is the passing preciousness of dreams;<br /> +That aspects are within us; and who seems<br /> + Most kingly is the King.</p> +<p>1867: <span class="smcap">Westbourne Park Villas</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>AT +LULWORTH COVE A CENTURY BACK</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Had</span> I but lived a +hundred years ago<br /> +I might have gone, as I have gone this year,<br /> +By Warmwell Cross on to a Cove I know,<br /> +And Time have placed his finger on me there:</p> +<p class="poetry">“<i>You see that man</i>?”—I +might have looked, and said,<br /> +“O yes: I see him. One that boat has brought<br /> +Which dropped down Channel round Saint Alban’s Head.<br /> +So commonplace a youth calls not my thought.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“<i>You see that +man</i>?”—“Why yes; I told you; yes:<br /> +Of an idling town-sort; thin; hair brown in hue;<br /> +<a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>And as the +evening light scants less and less<br /> +He looks up at a star, as many do.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“<i>You see that +man</i>?”—“Nay, leave me!” then I +plead,<br /> +“I have fifteen miles to vamp across the lea,<br /> +And it grows dark, and I am weary-kneed:<br /> +I have said the third time; yes, that man I see!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Good. That man goes to +Rome—to death, despair;<br /> +And no one notes him now but you and I:<br /> +A hundred years, and the world will follow him there,<br /> +And bend with reverence where his ashes lie.”</p> +<p><i>September</i> 1920.</p> +<p><i>Note</i>.—In September 1820 Keats, on his way to +Rome, landed one day on the Dorset coast, and composed the +sonnet, “Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou +art.” The spot of his landing is judged to have been +Lulworth Cove.</p> +<h2><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>A +BYGONE OCCASION<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(SONG)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">That</span> night, that night,<br /> + That song, that song!<br /> +Will such again be evened quite<br /> + Through lifetimes long?</p> +<p class="poetry"> No mirth was shown<br /> + To outer seers,<br /> +But mood to match has not been known<br /> + In modern years.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O eyes that smiled,<br /> + O lips that lured;<br /> +That such would last was one beguiled<br /> + To think ensured!</p> +<p class="poetry"> That night, that night,<br /> + That song, that song;<br /> +O drink to its recalled delight,<br /> + Though tears may throng!</p> +<h2><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>TWO +SERENADES</h2> +<h3>I<br /> +<i>On Christmas Eve</i></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Late</span> on Christmas +Eve, in the street alone,<br /> +Outside a house, on the pavement-stone,<br /> +I sang to her, as we’d sung together<br /> +On former eves ere I felt her tether.—<br /> +Above the door of green by me<br /> +Was she, her casement seen by me;<br /> + But she would not heed<br /> + What I melodied<br /> + In my soul’s sore need—<br /> + She would not heed.</p> +<p class="poetry">Cassiopeia overhead,<br /> +And the Seven of the Wain, heard what I said<br /> +As I bent me there, and voiced, and fingered<br /> +Upon the strings. . . . Long, long I lingered:<br /> +<a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>Only the +curtains hid from her<br /> +One whom caprice had bid from her;<br /> + But she did not come,<br /> + And my heart grew numb<br /> + And dull my strum;<br /> + She did not come.</p> +<h3>II<br /> +<i>A Year Later</i></h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">skimmed</span> the +strings; I sang quite low;<br /> +I hoped she would not come or know<br /> +That the house next door was the one now dittied,<br /> +Not hers, as when I had played unpitied;<br /> +—Next door, where dwelt a heart fresh stirred,<br /> +My new Love, of good will to me,<br /> +Unlike my old Love chill to me,<br /> +Who had not cared for my notes when heard:<br /> + Yet that old Love came<br /> + To the other’s name<br /> + As hers were the claim;<br /> + Yea, the old Love came</p> +<p class="poetry">My viol sank mute, my tongue stood still,<br /> +I tried to sing on, but vain my will:<br /> +<a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>I prayed +she would guess of the later, and leave me;<br /> +She stayed, as though, were she slain by the smart,<br /> +She would bear love’s burn for a newer heart.<br /> +The tense-drawn moment wrought to bereave me<br /> +Of voice, and I turned in a dumb despair<br /> +At her finding I’d come to another there.<br /> + Sick I withdrew<br /> + At love’s grim hue<br /> + Ere my last Love knew;<br /> + Sick I withdrew.</p> +<p>From an old copy.</p> +<h2><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>THE +WEDDING MORNING</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Tabitha</span> dressed for her wedding:—<br +/> + “Tabby, why look so sad?”<br /> +“—O I feel a great gloominess spreading, +spreading,<br /> + Instead of supremely glad! . . .</p> +<p class="poetry"> “I called on Carry last +night,<br /> + And he came whilst I was there,<br /> +Not knowing I’d called. So I kept out of sight,<br /> + And I heard what he said to her:</p> +<p class="poetry"> “‘—Ah, +I’d far liefer marry<br /> + <i>You</i>, Dear, to-morrow!’ he said,<br /> +‘But that cannot be.’—O I’d give him to +Carry,<br /> + And willingly see them wed,</p> +<p class="poetry"> “But how can I do it +when<br /> + His baby will soon be born?<br /> +After that I hope I may die. And then<br /> + She can have him. I shall not +mourn!”</p> +<h2><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>END OF +THE YEAR 1912</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">You</span> were here at his +young beginning,<br /> + You are not here at his agèd end;<br /> +Off he coaxed you from Life’s mad spinning,<br /> + Lest you should see his form extend<br /> + Shivering, sighing,<br /> + Slowly dying,<br /> + And a tear on him expend.</p> +<p class="poetry">So it comes that we stand lonely<br /> + In the star-lit avenue,<br /> +Dropping broken lipwords only,<br /> + For we hear no songs from you,<br /> + Such as flew here<br /> + For the new year<br /> + Once, while six bells swung thereto.</p> +<h2><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>THE +CHIMES PLAY “LIFE’S A BUMPER!”</h2> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Awake</span>! +I’m off to cities far away,”<br /> +I said; and rose, on peradventures bent.<br /> +The chimes played “Life’s a Bumper!” on that +day<br /> +To the measure of my walking as I went:<br /> +Their sweetness frisked and floated on the lea,<br /> +As they played out “Life’s a Bumper!” there to +me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Awake!” I said. “I go +to take a bride!”<br /> +—The sun arose behind me ruby-red<br /> +As I journeyed townwards from the countryside,<br /> +The chiming bells saluting near ahead.<br /> +Their sweetness swelled in tripping tings of glee<br /> +As they played out “Life’s a Bumper!” there to +me.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +92</span>“Again arise.” I seek a turfy +slope,<br /> +And go forth slowly on an autumn noon,<br /> +And there I lay her who has been my hope,<br /> +And think, “O may I follow hither soon!”<br /> +While on the wind the chimes come cheerily,<br /> +Playing out “Life’s a Bumper!” there to me.</p> +<p>1913.</p> +<h2><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +93</span>“I WORKED NO WILE TO MEET YOU”<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(SONG)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">worked</span> no wile to +meet you,<br /> + My sight was set elsewhere,<br /> +I sheered about to shun you,<br /> + And lent your life no care.<br /> +I was unprimed to greet you<br /> + At such a date and place,<br /> +Constraint alone had won you<br /> + Vision of my strange face!</p> +<p class="poetry">You did not seek to see me<br /> + Then or at all, you said,<br /> +—Meant passing when you neared me,<br /> + But stumblingblocks forbade.<br /> +You even had thought to flee me,<br /> + By other mindings moved;<br /> +No influent star endeared me,<br /> + Unknown, unrecked, unproved!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +94</span>What, then, was there to tell us<br /> + The flux of flustering hours<br /> +Of their own tide would bring us<br /> + By no device of ours<br /> +To where the daysprings well us<br /> + Heart-hydromels that cheer,<br /> +Till Time enearth and swing us<br /> + Round with the turning sphere.</p> +<h2><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>AT THE +RAILWAY STATION, UPWAY</h2> +<p class="poetry"> “<span +class="smcap">There</span> is not much that I can do,<br /> +For I’ve no money that’s quite my own!”<br /> + Spoke up the pitying child—<br /> +A little boy with a violin<br /> +At the station before the train came in,—<br /> +“But I can play my fiddle to you,<br /> +And a nice one ’tis, and good in tone!”</p> +<p class="poetry"> The man in the handcuffs +smiled;<br /> +The constable looked, and he smiled, too,<br /> + As the fiddle began to twang;<br /> +And the man in the handcuffs suddenly sang<br /> + Uproariously:<br /> + “This life so free<br /> + Is the thing for me!”<br /> +And the constable smiled, and said no word,<br /> +As if unconscious of what he heard;<br /> +And so they went on till the train came in—<br /> +The convict, and boy with the violin.</p> +<h2><a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>SIDE +BY SIDE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">So</span> there sat +they,<br /> +The estranged two,<br /> +Thrust in one pew<br /> +By chance that day;<br /> +Placed so, breath-nigh,<br /> +Each comer unwitting<br /> +Who was to be sitting<br /> +In touch close by.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus side by side<br /> +Blindly alighted,<br /> +They seemed united<br /> +As groom and bride,<br /> +Who’d not communed<br /> +For many years—<br /> +Lives from twain spheres<br /> +With hearts distuned.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +97</span>Her fringes brushed<br /> +His garment’s hem<br /> +As the harmonies rushed<br /> +Through each of them:<br /> +Her lips could be heard<br /> +In the creed and psalms,<br /> +And their fingers neared<br /> +At the giving of alms.</p> +<p class="poetry">And women and men,<br /> +The matins ended,<br /> +By looks commended<br /> +Them, joined again.<br /> +Quickly said she,<br /> +“Don’t undeceive them—<br /> +Better thus leave them:”<br /> +“Quite so,” said he.</p> +<p class="poetry">Slight words!—the last<br /> +Between them said,<br /> +Those two, once wed,<br /> +Who had not stood fast.<br /> +Diverse their ways<br /> +From the western door,<br /> +To meet no more<br /> +In their span of days.</p> +<h2><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>DREAM +OF THE CITY SHOPWOMAN</h2> +<p class="poetry">’<span class="smcap">Twere</span> sweet +to have a comrade here,<br /> +Who’d vow to love this garreteer,<br /> +By city people’s snap and sneer<br /> + Tried oft and hard!</p> +<p class="poetry">We’d rove a truant cock and hen<br /> +To some snug solitary glen,<br /> +And never be seen to haunt again<br /> + This teeming yard.</p> +<p class="poetry">Within a cot of thatch and clay<br /> +We’d list the flitting pipers play,<br /> +Our lives a twine of good and gay<br /> + Enwreathed discreetly;</p> +<p class="poetry">Our blithest deeds so neighbouring wise<br /> +That doves should coo in soft surprise,<br /> +“These must belong to Paradise<br /> + Who live so sweetly.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +99</span>Our clock should be the closing flowers,<br /> +Our sprinkle-bath the passing showers,<br /> +Our church the alleyed willow bowers,<br /> + The truth our theme;</p> +<p class="poetry">And infant shapes might soon abound:<br /> +Their shining heads would dot us round<br /> +Like mushroom balls on grassy ground . . .<br /> + —But all is dream!</p> +<p class="poetry">O God, that creatures framed to feel<br /> +A yearning nature’s strong appeal<br /> +Should writhe on this eternal wheel<br /> + In rayless grime;</p> +<p class="poetry">And vainly note, with wan regret,<br /> +Each star of early promise set;<br /> +Till Death relieves, and they forget<br /> + Their one Life’s time!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Westbourne Park Villas</span>, 1866.</p> +<h2><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>A +MAIDEN’S PLEDGE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(SONG)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">do</span> not wish to win +your vow<br /> +To take me soon or late as bride,<br /> +And lift me from the nook where now<br /> +I tarry your farings to my side.<br /> +I am blissful ever to abide<br /> +In this green labyrinth—let all be,<br /> +If but, whatever may betide,<br /> +You do not leave off loving me!</p> +<p class="poetry">Your comet-comings I will wait<br /> +With patience time shall not wear through;<br /> +The yellowing years will not abate<br /> +My largened love and truth to you,<br /> +Nor drive me to complaint undue<br /> +Of absence, much as I may pine,<br /> +If never another ’twixt us two<br /> +Shall come, and you stand wholly mine.</p> +<h2><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>THE +CHILD AND THE SAGE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">You</span> say, O Sage, +when weather-checked,<br /> + “I have been favoured so<br /> +With cloudless skies, I must expect<br /> + This dash of rain or snow.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Since health has been my lot,” you +say,<br /> + “So many months of late,<br /> +I must not chafe that one short day<br /> + Of sickness mars my state.”</p> +<p class="poetry">You say, “Such bliss has been my share<br +/> + From Love’s unbroken smile,<br /> +It is but reason I should bear<br /> + A cross therein awhile.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And thus you do not count upon<br /> + Continuance of joy;<br /> +But, when at ease, expect anon<br /> + A burden of annoy.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +102</span>But, Sage—this Earth—why not a place<br /> + Where no reprisals reign,<br /> +Where never a spell of pleasantness<br /> + Makes reasonable a pain?</p> +<p><i>December</i> 21, 1908.</p> +<h2><a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +103</span>MISMET</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry"> <span class="smcap">He</span> +was leaning by a face,<br /> + He was looking into eyes,<br /> + And he knew a trysting-place,<br /> + And he heard seductive sighs;<br /> + But the face,<br /> + And the eyes,<br /> + And the place,<br /> + And the sighs,<br /> +Were not, alas, the right ones—the ones meet for +him—<br /> +Though fine and sweet the features, and the feelings all +abrim.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry"> She was looking at a form,<br +/> + She was listening for a tread,<br /> + She could feel a waft of charm<br /> + When a certain name was said;<br /> + <a name="page104"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 104</span>But the form,<br /> + And the tread,<br /> + And the charm<br /> + Of name said,<br /> +Were the wrong ones for her, and ever would be so,<br /> +While the heritor of the right it would have saved her soul to +know!</p> +<h2><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>AN +AUTUMN RAIN-SCENE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> trudges one to +a merry-making<br /> + With a sturdy swing,<br /> + On whom the rain comes down.</p> +<p class="poetry">To fetch the saving medicament<br /> + Is another bent,<br /> + On whom the rain comes down.</p> +<p class="poetry">One slowly drives his herd to the stall<br /> + Ere ill befall,<br /> + On whom the rain comes down.</p> +<p class="poetry">This bears his missives of life and death<br /> + With quickening breath,<br /> + On whom the rain comes down.</p> +<p class="poetry">One watches for signals of wreck or war<br /> + From the hill afar,<br /> + On whom the rain comes down.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +106</span>No care if he gain a shelter or none,<br /> + Unhired moves one,<br /> + On whom the rain comes down.</p> +<p class="poetry">And another knows nought of its chilling +fall<br /> + Upon him at all,<br /> + On whom the rain comes down.</p> +<p><i>October</i> 1904.</p> +<h2><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +107</span>MEDITATIONS ON A HOLIDAY<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(A NEW THEME TO AN OLD +FOLK-JINGLE)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry">’<span class="smcap">Tis</span> May +morning,<br /> +All-adorning,<br /> +No cloud warning<br /> + Of rain to-day.<br /> +Where shall I go to,<br /> +Go to, go to?—<br /> +Can I say No to<br /> + Lyonnesse-way?</p> +<p class="poetry">Well—what reason<br /> +Now at this season<br /> +Is there for treason<br /> + To other shrines?<br /> +Tristram is not there,<br /> +Isolt forgot there,<br /> +New eras blot there<br /> + Sought-for signs!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +108</span>Stratford-on-Avon—<br /> +Poesy-paven—<br /> +I’ll find a haven<br /> + There, somehow!—<br /> +Nay—I’m but caught of<br /> +Dreams long thought of,<br /> +The Swan knows nought of<br /> + His Avon now!</p> +<p class="poetry">What shall it be, then,<br /> +I go to see, then,<br /> +Under the plea, then,<br /> + Of votary?<br /> +I’ll go to Lakeland,<br /> +Lakeland, Lakeland,<br /> +Certainly Lakeland<br /> + Let it be.</p> +<p class="poetry">But—why to that place,<br /> +That place, that place,<br /> +Such a hard come-at place<br /> + Need I fare?<br /> +When its bard cheers no more,<br /> +Loves no more, fears no more,<br /> +Sees no more, hears no more<br /> + Anything there!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, there is Scotland,<br /> +Burns’s Scotland,<br /> +And Waverley’s. To what land<br /> + Better can I hie?—<br /> +<a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +109</span>Yet—if no whit now<br /> +Feel those of it now—<br /> +Care not a bit now<br /> + For it—why I?</p> +<p class="poetry">I’ll seek a town street,<br /> +Aye, a brick-brown street,<br /> +Quite a tumbledown street,<br /> + Drawing no eyes.<br /> +For a Mary dwelt there,<br /> +And a Percy felt there<br /> +Heart of him melt there,<br /> + A Claire likewise.</p> +<p class="poetry">Why incline to <i>that</i> city,<br /> +Such a city, <i>that</i> city,<br /> +Now a mud-bespat city!—<br /> + Care the lovers who<br /> +Now live and walk there,<br /> +Sit there and talk there,<br /> +Buy there, or hawk there,<br /> + Or wed, or woo?</p> +<p class="poetry">Laughters in a volley<br /> +Greet so fond a folly<br /> +As nursing melancholy<br /> + In this and that spot,<br /> +Which, with most endeavour,<br /> +Those can visit never,<br /> +But for ever and ever<br /> + Will now know not!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +110</span>If, on lawns Elysian,<br /> +With a broadened vision<br /> +And a faint derision<br /> + Conscious be they,<br /> +How they might reprove me<br /> +That these fancies move me,<br /> +Think they ill behoove me,<br /> + Smile, and say:</p> +<p class="poetry">“What!—our hoar old houses,<br /> +Where the past dead-drowses,<br /> +Nor a child nor spouse is<br /> + Of our name at all?<br /> +Such abodes to care for,<br /> +Inquire about and bear for,<br /> +And suffer wear and tear for—<br /> + How weak of you and small!”</p> +<p><i>May</i> 1921.</p> +<h2><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>AN +EXPERIENCE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Wit</span>, weight, or +wealth there was not<br /> + In anything that was said,<br /> + In anything that was done;<br /> +All was of scope to cause not<br /> + A triumph, dazzle, or dread<br /> + To even the subtlest one,<br /> + My friend,<br /> + To even the subtlest one.</p> +<p class="poetry">But there was a new afflation—<br /> + An aura zephyring round,<br /> + That care infected not:<br /> +It came as a salutation,<br /> + And, in my sweet astound,<br /> + I scarcely witted what<br /> + Might pend,<br /> + I scarcely witted what.</p> +<p class="poetry">The hills in samewise to me<br /> + Spoke, as they grayly gazed,<br /> + —First hills to speak so yet!<br /> +<a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>The +thin-edged breezes blew me<br /> + What I, though cobwebbed, crazed,<br /> + Was never to forget,<br /> + My friend,<br /> + Was never to forget!</p> +<h2><a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>THE +BEAUTY</h2> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">do</span> not praise my +beauty more,<br /> + In such word-wild degree,<br /> +And say I am one all eyes adore;<br /> + For these things harass me!</p> +<p class="poetry">But do for ever softly say:<br /> + “From now unto the end<br /> +Come weal, come wanzing, come what may,<br /> + Dear, I will be your friend.”</p> +<p class="poetry">I hate my beauty in the glass:<br /> + My beauty is not I:<br /> +I wear it: none cares whether, alas,<br /> + Its wearer live or die!</p> +<p class="poetry">The inner I O care for, then,<br /> + Yea, me and what I am,<br /> +And shall be at the gray hour when<br /> + My cheek begins to clam.</p> +<p><i>Note</i>.—“The Regent Street beauty, Miss +Verrey, the Swiss confectioner’s daughter, whose personal +attractions have been so mischievously exaggerated, died of fever +on Monday evening, brought on by the annoyance she had been for +some time subject to.”—London paper, October +1828.</p> +<h2><a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>THE +COLLECTOR CLEANS HIS PICTURE</h2> +<blockquote><p>Fili hominis, ecce ego tollo a te desiderabile +oculorum tuorom in plaga.—<span class="smcap">Ezech</span>. +xxiv. 16.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">How</span> I remember cleaning that strange +picture!<br /> +I had been deep in duty for my sick neighbour—<br /> +His besides my own—over several Sundays,<br /> +Often, too, in the week; so with parish pressures,<br /> +Baptisms, burials, doctorings, conjugal counsel—<br /> +All the whatnots asked of a rural parson—<br /> +Faith, I was well-nigh broken, should have been fully<br /> +Saving for one small secret relaxation,<br /> +One that in mounting manhood had grown my hobby.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page115"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 115</span>This was to delve at whiles for +easel-lumber,<br /> +Stowed in the backmost slums of a soon-reached city,<br /> +Merely on chance to uncloak some worthy canvas,<br /> +Panel, or plaque, blacked blind by uncouth adventure,<br /> +Yet under all concealing a precious art-feat.<br /> +Such I had found not yet. My latest capture<br /> +Came from the rooms of a trader in ancient house-gear<br /> +Who had no scent of beauty or soul for brushcraft.<br /> +Only a tittle cost it—murked with grime-films,<br /> +Gatherings of slow years, thick-varnished over,<br /> +Never a feature manifest of man’s painting.</p> +<p class="poetry"> So, one Saturday, time +ticking hard on midnight<br /> +Ere an hour subserved, I set me upon it.<br /> +Long with coiled-up sleeves I cleaned and yet cleaned,<br /> +Till a first fresh spot, a high light, looked forth,<br /> +Then another, like fair flesh, and another;<br /> +<a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>Then a +curve, a nostril, and next a finger,<br /> +Tapering, shapely, significantly pointing slantwise.<br /> +“Flemish?” I said. “Nay, Spanish . . . But, +nay, Italian!”<br /> +—Then meseemed it the guise of the ranker Venus,<br /> +Named of some Astarte, of some Cotytto.<br /> +Down I knelt before it and kissed the panel,<br /> +Drunk with the lure of love’s inhibited dreamings.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Till the dawn I rubbed, when +there gazed up at me<br /> +A hag, that had slowly emerged from under my hands there,<br /> +Pointing the slanted finger towards a bosom<br /> +Eaten away of a rot from the lusts of a lifetime . . .<br /> +—I could have ended myself in heart-shook horror.<br /> +Stunned I sat till roused by a clear-voiced bell-chime,<br /> +Fresh and sweet as the dew-fleece under my luthern.<br /> +It was the matin service calling to me<br /> +From the adjacent steeple.</p> +<h2><a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>THE +WOOD FIRE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(A FRAGMENT)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">This</span> is a +brightsome blaze you’ve lit good friend, +to-night!”<br /> +“—Aye, it has been the bleakest spring I have felt +for years,<br /> +And nought compares with cloven logs to keep alight:<br /> +I buy them bargain-cheap of the executioners,<br /> +As I dwell near; and they wanted the crosses out of sight<br /> +By Passover, not to affront the eyes of visitors.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yes, they’re from the crucifixions +last week-ending<br /> +At Kranion. We can sometimes use the poles again,<br /> +<a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>But they +get split by the nails, and ’tis quicker work than +mending<br /> +To knock together new; though the uprights now and then<br /> +Serve twice when they’re let stand. But if a +feast’s impending,<br /> +As lately, you’ve to tidy up for the corners’ +ken.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Though only three were impaled, you may +know it didn’t pass off<br /> +So quietly as was wont? That Galilee carpenter’s +son<br /> +Who boasted he was king, incensed the rabble to scoff:<br /> +I heard the noise from my garden. This piece is the one he +was on . . .<br /> +Yes, it blazes up well if lit with a few dry chips and shroff;<br +/> +And it’s worthless for much else, what with cuts and stains +thereon.”</p> +<h2><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +119</span>SAYING GOOD-BYE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(SONG)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> are always +saying<br /> + “Good-bye, good-bye!”<br /> +In work, in playing,<br /> +In gloom, in gaying:<br /> + At many a stage<br /> + Of pilgrimage<br /> + From youth to age<br /> + We say, “Good-bye,<br /> + Good-bye!”</p> +<p class="poetry">We are undiscerning<br /> + Which go to sigh,<br /> +Which will be yearning<br /> +For soon returning;<br /> + And which no more<br /> + Will dark our door,<br /> + Or tread our shore,<br /> + But go to die,<br /> + To die.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +120</span>Some come from roaming<br /> + With joy again;<br /> +Some, who come homing<br /> +By stealth at gloaming,<br /> + Had better have stopped<br /> + Till death, and dropped<br /> + By strange hands propped,<br /> + Than come so fain,<br /> + So fain.</p> +<p class="poetry">So, with this saying,<br /> + “Good-bye, good-bye,”<br /> +We speed their waying<br /> +Without betraying<br /> + Our grief, our fear<br /> + No more to hear<br /> + From them, close, clear,<br /> + Again: “Good-bye,<br /> + Good-bye!”</p> +<h2><a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>ON +THE TUNE CALLED THE OLD-HUNDRED-AND-FOURTH</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> never sang +together<br /> + Ravenscroft’s terse old tune<br /> +On Sundays or on weekdays,<br /> +In sharp or summer weather,<br /> + At night-time or at noon.</p> +<p class="poetry">Why did we never sing it,<br /> + Why never so incline<br /> +On Sundays or on weekdays,<br /> +Even when soft wafts would wing it<br /> + From your far floor to mine?</p> +<p class="poetry">Shall we that tune, then, never<br /> + Stand voicing side by side<br /> +On Sundays or on weekdays? . . .<br /> +Or shall we, when for ever<br /> + In Sheol we abide,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +122</span>Sing it in desolation,<br /> + As we might long have done<br /> +On Sundays or on weekdays<br /> +With love and exultation<br /> + Before our sands had run?</p> +<h2><a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>THE +OPPORTUNITY<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(FOR H. P.)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Forty</span> springs back, +I recall,<br /> + We met at this phase of the Maytime:<br /> +We might have clung close through all,<br /> + But we parted when died that daytime.</p> +<p class="poetry">We parted with smallest regret;<br /> + Perhaps should have cared but slightly,<br /> +Just then, if we never had met:<br /> + Strange, strange that we lived so lightly!</p> +<p class="poetry">Had we mused a little space<br /> + At that critical date in the Maytime,<br /> +One life had been ours, one place,<br /> + Perhaps, till our long cold daytime.</p> +<p class="poetry">—This is a bitter thing<br /> + For thee, O man: what ails it?<br /> +The tide of chance may bring<br /> + Its offer; but nought avails it!</p> +<h2><a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +124</span>EVELYN G. OF CHRISTMINSTER</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">can</span> see the +towers<br /> +In mind quite clear<br /> +Not many hours’<br /> +Faring from here;<br /> +But how up and go,<br /> +And briskly bear<br /> +Thither, and know<br /> +That are not there?</p> +<p class="poetry">Though the birds sing small,<br /> +And apple and pear<br /> +On your trees by the wall<br /> +Are ripe and rare,<br /> +Though none excel them,<br /> +I have no care<br /> +To taste them or smell them<br /> +And you not there.</p> +<p class="poetry">Though the College stones<br /> +Are smit with the sun,<br /> +And the graduates and Dons<br /> +Who held you as one<br /> +<a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>Of +brightest brow<br /> +Still think as they did,<br /> +Why haunt with them now<br /> +Your candle is hid?</p> +<p class="poetry">Towards the river<br /> +A pealing swells:<br /> +They cost me a quiver—<br /> +Those prayerful bells!<br /> +How go to God,<br /> +Who can reprove<br /> +With so heavy a rod<br /> +As your swift remove!</p> +<p class="poetry">The chorded keys<br /> +Wait all in a row,<br /> +And the bellows wheeze<br /> +As long ago.<br /> +And the psalter lingers,<br /> +And organist’s chair;<br /> +But where are your fingers<br /> +That once wagged there?</p> +<p class="poetry">Shall I then seek<br /> +That desert place<br /> +This or next week,<br /> +And those tracks trace<br /> +That fill me with cark<br /> +And cloy; nowhere<br /> +Being movement or mark<br /> +Of you now there!</p> +<h2><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 126</span>THE +RIFT<br /> +(<span class="smcap">Song</span>: <i>Minor Mode</i>)</h2> +<p class="poetry">’<span class="smcap">Twas</span> just at +gnat and cobweb-time,<br /> +When yellow begins to show in the leaf,<br /> +That your old gamut changed its chime<br /> +From those true tones—of span so brief!—<br /> +That met my beats of joy, of grief,<br /> + As rhyme meets rhyme.</p> +<p class="poetry">So sank I from my high sublime!<br /> +We faced but chancewise after that,<br /> +And never I knew or guessed my crime. . .<br /> +Yes; ’twas the date—or nigh thereat—<br /> +Of the yellowing leaf; at moth and gnat<br /> + And cobweb-time.</p> +<h2><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +127</span>VOICES FROM THINGS GROWING IN A CHURCHYARD</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">These</span> flowers are I, +poor Fanny Hurd,<br /> + Sir or Madam,<br /> +A little girl here sepultured.<br /> +Once I flit-fluttered like a bird<br /> +Above the grass, as now I wave<br /> +In daisy shapes above my grave,<br /> + All day cheerily,<br /> + All night eerily!</p> +<p class="poetry">—I am one Bachelor Bowring, +“Gent,”<br /> + Sir or Madam;<br /> +In shingled oak my bones were pent;<br /> +Hence more than a hundred years I spent<br /> +In my feat of change from a coffin-thrall<br /> +To a dancer in green as leaves on a wall.<br /> + All day cheerily,<br /> + All night eerily!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +128</span>—I, these berries of juice and gloss,<br /> + Sir or Madam,<br /> +Am clean forgotten as Thomas Voss;<br /> +Thin-urned, I have burrowed away from the moss<br /> +That covers my sod, and have entered this yew,<br /> +And turned to clusters ruddy of view,<br /> + All day cheerily,<br /> + All night eerily!</p> +<p class="poetry">—The Lady Gertrude, proud, high-bred,<br +/> + Sir or Madam,<br /> +Am I—this laurel that shades your head;<br /> +Into its veins I have stilly sped,<br /> +And made them of me; and my leaves now shine,<br /> +As did my satins superfine,<br /> + All day cheerily,<br /> + All night eerily!</p> +<p class="poetry">—I, who as innocent withwind climb,<br /> + Sir or Madam.<br /> +Am one Eve Greensleeves, in olden time<br /> +Kissed by men from many a clime,<br /> +Beneath sun, stars, in blaze, in breeze,<br /> +As now by glowworms and by bees,<br /> + All day cheerily,<br /> + All night eerily! <a name="citation128"></a><a +href="#footnote128" class="citation">[128]</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +129</span>—I’m old Squire Audeley Grey, who grew,<br +/> + Sir or Madam,<br /> +Aweary of life, and in scorn withdrew;<br /> +Till anon I clambered up anew<br /> +As ivy-green, when my ache was stayed,<br /> +And in that attire I have longtime gayed<br /> + All day cheerily,<br /> + All night eerily!</p> +<p class="poetry">—And so they breathe, these masks, to +each<br /> + Sir or Madam<br /> +Who lingers there, and their lively speech<br /> +Affords an interpreter much to teach,<br /> +As their murmurous accents seem to come<br /> +Thence hitheraround in a radiant hum,<br /> + All day cheerily,<br /> + All night eerily!</p> +<h2><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 130</span>ON +THE WAY</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">The</span> trees fret fitfully and twist,<br /> + Shutters rattle and carpets heave,<br /> + Slime is the dust of yestereve,<br /> + And in the streaming mist<br /> +Fishes might seem to fin a passage if they list.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> But +to his feet,<br /> + Drawing nigh and +nigher<br /> + A hidden +seat,<br /> + The fog is +sweet<br /> + And the wind a +lyre.</p> +<p class="poetry"> A vacant sameness grays the +sky,<br /> + A moisture gathers on each knop<br /> + Of the bramble, rounding to a drop,<br /> + That greets the goer-by<br /> +With the cold listless lustre of a dead man’s eye.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 131</span>But to her +sight,<br /> + Drawing nigh and +nigher<br /> + Its deep +delight,<br /> + The fog is +bright<br /> + And the wind a +lyre.</p> +<h2><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>“SHE DID NOT TURN”</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">She</span> did not turn,<br /> +But passed foot-faint with averted head<br /> +In her gown of green, by the bobbing fern,<br /> +Though I leaned over the gate that led<br /> +From where we waited with table spread;<br /> + But she did not turn:<br /> +Why was she near there if love had fled?</p> +<p class="poetry"> She did not turn,<br /> +Though the gate was whence I had often sped<br /> +In the mists of morning to meet her, and learn<br /> +Her heart, when its moving moods I read<br /> +As a book—she mine, as she sometimes said;<br /> + But she did not turn,<br /> +And passed foot-faint with averted head.</p> +<h2><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +133</span>GROWTH IN MAY</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">enter</span> a +daisy-and-buttercup land,<br /> + And thence thread a jungle of grass:<br /> +Hurdles and stiles scarce visible stand<br /> + Above the lush stems as I pass.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hedges peer over, and try to be seen,<br /> + And seem to reveal a dim sense<br /> +That amid such ambitious and elbow-high green<br /> + They make a mean show as a fence.</p> +<p class="poetry">Elsewhere the mead is possessed of the +neats,<br /> + That range not greatly above<br /> +The rich rank thicket which brushes their teats,<br /> + And <i>her</i> gown, as she waits for her Love.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Near Chard</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 134</span>THE +CHILDREN AND SIR NAMELESS</h2> +<p class="poetry">Sir Nameless, once of Athelhall, declared:<br +/> +“These wretched children romping in my park<br /> +Trample the herbage till the soil is bared,<br /> +And yap and yell from early morn till dark!<br /> +Go keep them harnessed to their set routines:<br /> +Thank God I’ve none to hasten my decay;<br /> +For green remembrance there are better means<br /> +Than offspring, who but wish their sires away.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Sir Nameless of that mansion said anon:<br /> +“To be perpetuate for my mightiness<br /> +Sculpture must image me when I am gone.”<br /> +<a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +135</span>—He forthwith summoned carvers there express<br +/> +To shape a figure stretching seven-odd feet<br /> +(For he was tall) in alabaster stone,<br /> +With shield, and crest, and casque, and word complete:<br /> +When done a statelier work was never known.</p> +<p class="poetry">Three hundred years hied; Church-restorers +came,<br /> +And, no one of his lineage being traced,<br /> +They thought an effigy so large in frame<br /> +Best fitted for the floor. There it was placed,<br /> +Under the seats for schoolchildren. And they<br /> +Kicked out his name, and hobnailed off his nose;<br /> +And, as they yawn through sermon-time, they say,<br /> +“Who was this old stone man beneath our toes?”</p> +<h2><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 136</span>AT +THE ROYAL ACADEMY</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">These</span> summer +landscapes—clump, and copse, and croft—<br /> +Woodland and meadowland—here hung aloft,<br /> +Gay with limp grass and leafery new and soft,</p> +<p class="poetry">Seem caught from the immediate season’s +yield<br /> +I saw last noonday shining over the field,<br /> +By rapid snatch, while still are uncongealed</p> +<p class="poetry">The saps that in their live originals climb;<br +/> +Yester’s quick greenage here set forth in mime<br /> +Just as it stands, now, at our breathing-time.</p> +<p class="poetry">But these young foils so fresh upon each +tree,<br /> +Soft verdures spread in sprouting novelty,<br /> +Are not this summer’s, though they feign to be.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +137</span>Last year their May to Michaelmas term was run,<br /> +Last autumn browned and buried every one,<br /> +And no more know they sight of any sun.</p> +<h2><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 138</span>HER +TEMPLE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Dear</span>, think not that +they will forget you:<br /> + —If craftsmanly art should be mine<br /> +I will build up a temple, and set you<br /> + Therein as its shrine.</p> +<p class="poetry">They may say: “Why a woman such +honour?”<br /> + —Be told, “O, so sweet was her fame,<br +/> +That a man heaped this splendour upon her;<br /> + None now knows his +name.”</p> +<h2><a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 139</span>A +TWO-YEARS’ IDYLL</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Yes</span>; such it was;<br /> + Just those two seasons unsought,<br /> +Sweeping like summertide wind on our ways;<br /> + Moving, as straws,<br /> + Hearts quick as ours in those days;<br /> +Going like wind, too, and rated as nought<br /> + Save as the prelude to plays<br /> + Soon to come—larger, life-fraught:<br /> + Yes; such it was.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Nought” +it was called,<br /> + Even by ourselves—that which springs<br /> +Out of the years for all flesh, first or last,<br /> + Commonplace, scrawled<br /> + Dully on days that go past.<br /> +Yet, all the while, it upbore us like wings<br /> + Even in hours overcast:<br /> + Aye, though this best thing of things,<br /> + “Nought” it was +called!</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a +name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 140</span>What seems +it now?<br /> + Lost: such beginning was all;<br /> +Nothing came after: romance straight forsook<br /> + Quickly somehow<br /> + Life when we sped from our nook,<br /> +Primed for new scenes with designs smart and tall . . .<br /> + —A preface without any book,<br /> + A trumpet uplipped, but no call;<br /> + That seems it now.</p> +<h2><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 141</span>BY +HENSTRIDGE CROSS AT THE YEAR’S END</h2> +<p>(From this centuries-old cross-road the highway leads east to +London, north to Bristol and Bath, west to Exeter and the +Land’s End, and south to the Channel coast.)</p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Why</span> go the east road now? . . .<br /> +That way a youth went on a morrow<br /> +After mirth, and he brought back sorrow<br /> + Painted upon his brow<br /> + Why go the east road now?</p> +<p class="poetry"> Why go the north road now?<br +/> +Torn, leaf-strewn, as if scoured by foemen,<br /> +Once edging fiefs of my forefolk yeomen,<br /> + Fallows fat to the plough:<br /> + Why go the north road now?</p> +<p class="poetry"> Why go the west road now?<br +/> +Thence to us came she, bosom-burning,<br /> +Welcome with joyousness returning . . .<br /> + —She sleeps under the bough:<br /> + Why go the west road now?</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page142"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 142</span>Why go the south road now?<br /> +That way marched they some are forgetting,<br /> +Stark to the moon left, past regretting<br /> + Loves who have falsed their vow . . .<br /> + Why go the south road now?</p> +<p class="poetry"> Why go any road now?<br /> +White stands the handpost for brisk on-bearers,<br /> +“Halt!” is the word for wan-cheeked farers<br /> + Musing on Whither, and How . . .<br /> + Why go any road now?</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Yea: we want new feet +now”<br /> +Answer the stones. “Want chit-chat, laughter:<br /> +Plenty of such to go hereafter<br /> + By our tracks, we trow!<br /> + We are for new feet now.”</p> +<p><i>During the War</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +143</span>PENANCE</h2> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Why</span> do you +sit, O pale thin man,<br /> + At the end of the room<br /> +By that harpsichord, built on the quaint old plan?<br /> + —It is cold as a tomb,<br /> +And there’s not a spark within the grate;<br /> + And the jingling wires<br /> + Are as vain desires<br /> + That have lagged too late.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Why do I? Alas, far times ago<br +/> + A woman lyred here<br /> +In the evenfall; one who fain did so<br /> + From year to year;<br /> +And, in loneliness bending wistfully,<br /> + Would wake each note<br /> + In sick sad rote,<br /> + None to listen or see!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span>“I would not join. I would not stay,<br /> + But drew away,<br /> +Though the winter fire beamed brightly . . . Aye!<br /> + I do to-day<br /> +What I would not then; and the chill old keys,<br /> + Like a skull’s brown teeth<br /> + Loose in their sheath,<br /> + Freeze my touch; yes, freeze.”</p> +<h2><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +145</span>“I LOOK IN HER FACE”<br /> +(<span class="smcap">Song</span>: <i>Minor</i>)</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">look</span> in her face +and say,<br /> +“Sing as you used to sing<br /> +About Love’s blossoming”;<br /> +But she hints not Yea or Nay.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Sing, then, that Love’s a pain,<br +/> +If, Dear, you think it so,<br /> +Whether it be or no;”<br /> +But dumb her lips remain.</p> +<p class="poetry">I go to a far-off room,<br /> +A faint song ghosts my ear;<br /> +<i>Which</i> song I cannot hear,<br /> +But it seems to come from a tomb.</p> +<h2><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +146</span>AFTER THE WAR</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Last</span> Post sounded<br +/> +Across the mead<br /> +To where he loitered<br /> +With absent heed.<br /> +Five years before<br /> +In the evening there<br /> +Had flown that call<br /> +To him and his Dear.<br /> +“You’ll never come back;<br /> +Good-bye!” she had said;<br /> +“Here I’ll be living,<br /> +And my Love dead!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Those closing minims<br /> +Had been as shafts darting<br /> +Through him and her pressed<br /> +In that last parting;<br /> +They thrilled him not now,<br /> +In the selfsame place<br /> +With the selfsame sun<br /> +<a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 147</span>On his +war-seamed face.<br /> +“Lurks a god’s laughter<br /> +In this?” he said,<br /> +“That I am the living<br /> +And she the dead!”</p> +<h2><a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +148</span>“IF YOU HAD KNOWN”</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span class="smcap">If</span> +you had known<br /> +When listening with her to the far-down moan<br /> +Of the white-selvaged and empurpled sea,<br /> +And rain came on that did not hinder talk,<br /> +Or damp your flashing facile gaiety<br /> +In turning home, despite the slow wet walk<br /> +By crooked ways, and over stiles of stone;<br /> + If you had known</p> +<p class="poetry"> You would lay roses,<br /> +Fifty years thence, on her monument, that discloses<br /> +Its graying shape upon the luxuriant green;<br /> +Fifty years thence to an hour, by chance led there,<br /> +What might have moved you?—yea, had you foreseen<br /> +<a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 149</span>That on +the tomb of the selfsame one, gone where<br /> +The dawn of every day is as the close is,<br /> + You would lay roses!</p> +<p>1920.</p> +<h2><a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 150</span>THE +CHAPEL-ORGANIST<br /> +(<span class="GutSmall">A.D.</span> 185–)</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">I’ve</span> been +thinking it through, as I play here to-night, to play never +again,<br /> +By the light of that lowering sun peering in at the +window-pane,<br /> +And over the back-street roofs, throwing shades from the boys of +the chore<br /> +In the gallery, right upon me, sitting up to these keys once more +. . .</p> +<p class="poetry">How I used to hear tongues ask, as I sat here +when I was new:<br /> +“Who is she playing the organ? She touches it +mightily true!”<br /> +“She travels from Havenpool Town,” the deacon would +softly speak,<br /> +“The stipend can hardly cover her fare hither twice in the +week.”<br /> +<a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 151</span>(It fell +far short of doing, indeed; but I never told,<br /> +For I have craved minstrelsy more than lovers, or beauty, or +gold.)</p> +<p class="poetry">’Twas so he answered at first, but the +story grew different later:<br /> +“It cannot go on much longer, from what we hear of her +now!”<br /> +At the meaning wheeze in the words the inquirer would shift his +place<br /> +Till he could see round the curtain that screened me from people +below.<br /> +“A handsome girl,” he would murmur, upstaring, (and +so I am).<br /> +“But—too much sex in her build; fine eyes, but +eyelids too heavy;<br /> +A bosom too full for her age; in her lips too voluptuous a +look.”<br /> +(It may be. But who put it there? Assuredly it was +not I.)</p> +<p class="poetry">I went on playing and singing when this I had +heard, and more,<br /> +Though tears half-blinded me; yes, I remained going on and on,<br +/> +Just as I used me to chord and to sing at the selfsame time! . . +.<br /> +For it’s a contralto—my voice is; they’ll hear +it again here to-night<br /> +<a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 152</span>In the +psalmody notes that I love more than world or than flesh or than +life.</p> +<p class="poetry">Well, the deacon, in fact, that day had learnt +new tidings about me;<br /> +They troubled his mind not a little, for he was a worthy man.<br +/> +(He trades as a chemist in High Street, and during the week he +had sought<br /> +His fellow-deacon, who throve as a book-binder over the way.)<br +/> +“These are strange rumours,” he said. “We +must guard the good name of the chapel.<br /> +If, sooth, she’s of evil report, what else can we do but +dismiss her?”<br /> +“—But get such another to play here we cannot for +double the price!”<br /> +It settled the point for the time, and I triumphed awhile in +their strait,<br /> +And my much-beloved grand semibreves went living on under my +fingers.</p> +<p class="poetry">At length in the congregation more head-shakes +and murmurs were rife,<br /> +And my dismissal was ruled, though I was not warned of it +then.<br /> +But a day came when they declared it. The news entered me +as a sword;<br /> +<a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 153</span>I was +broken; so pallid of face that they thought I should faint, they +said.<br /> +I rallied. “O, rather than go, I will play you for +nothing!” said I.<br /> +’Twas in much desperation I spoke it, for bring me to +forfeit I could not<br /> +Those melodies chorded so richly for which I had laboured and +lived.<br /> +They paused. And for nothing I played at the chapel through +Sundays anon,<br /> +Upheld by that art which I loved more than blandishments lavished +of men.</p> +<p class="poetry">But it fell that murmurs again from the flock +broke the pastor’s peace.<br /> +Some member had seen me at Havenpool, comrading close a +sea-captain.<br /> +(Yes; I was thereto constrained, lacking means for the fare to +and fro.)<br /> +Yet God knows, if aught He knows ever, I loved the Old-Hundredth, +Saint Stephen’s,<br /> +Mount Zion, New Sabbath, Miles-Lane, Holy Rest, and Arabia, and +Eaton,<br /> +Above all embraces of body by wooers who sought me and won! . . +.<br /> +Next week ’twas declared I was seen coming home with a +lover at dawn.<br /> +<a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 154</span>The +deacons insisted then, strong; and forgiveness I did not +implore.<br /> +I saw all was lost for me, quite, but I made a last bid in my +throbs.<br /> +High love had been beaten by lust; and the senses had conquered +the soul,<br /> +But the soul should die game, if I knew it! I turned to my +masters and said:<br /> +“I yield, Gentlemen, without parlance. But—let +me just hymn you <i>once</i> more!<br /> +It’s a little thing, Sirs, that I ask; and a passion is +music with me!”<br /> +They saw that consent would cost nothing, and show as good grace, +as knew I,<br /> +Though tremble I did, and feel sick, as I paused thereat, dumb +for their words.<br /> +They gloomily nodded assent, saying, “Yes, if you care +to. Once more,<br /> +And only once more, understand.” To that with a bend +I agreed.<br /> +—“You’ve a fixed and a far-reaching +look,” spoke one who had eyed me awhile.<br /> +“I’ve a fixed and a far-reaching plan, and my look +only showed it,” said I.</p> +<p class="poetry">This evening of Sunday is come—the last +of my functioning here.<br /> +<a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +155</span>“She plays as if she were possessed!” they +exclaim, glancing upward and round.<br /> +“Such harmonies I never dreamt the old instrument capable +of!”<br /> +Meantime the sun lowers and goes; shades deepen; the lights are +turned up,<br /> +And the people voice out the last singing: tune Tallis: the +Evening Hymn.<br /> +(I wonder Dissenters sing Ken: it shows them more liberal in +spirit<br /> +At this little chapel down here than at certain new others I +know.)<br /> +I sing as I play. Murmurs some one: “No woman’s +throat richer than hers!”<br /> +“True: in these parts, at least,” ponder I. +“But, my man, you will hear it no more.”<br /> +And I sing with them onward: “The grave dread as little do +I as my bed.”</p> +<p class="poetry">I lift up my feet from the pedals; and then, +while my eyes are still wet<br /> +From the symphonies born of my fingers, I do that whereon I am +set,<br /> +And draw from my “full round bosom,” (their words; +how can <i>I</i> help its heave?)<br /> +<a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 156</span>A bottle +blue-coloured and fluted—a vinaigrette, they may +conceive—<br /> +And before the choir measures my meaning, reads aught in my moves +to and fro,<br /> +I drink from the phial at a draught, and they think it a +pick-me-up; so.<br /> +Then I gather my books as to leave, bend over the keys as to +pray.<br /> +When they come to me motionless, stooping, quick death will have +whisked me away.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Sure, nobody meant her to poison herself +in her haste, after all!”<br /> +The deacons will say as they carry me down and the night shadows +fall,<br /> +“Though the charges were true,” they will add. +“It’s a case red as scarlet withal!”<br /> +I have never once minced it. Lived chaste I have not. +Heaven knows it above! . . .<br /> +But past all the heavings of passion—it’s music has +been my life-love! . . .<br /> +That tune did go well—this last playing! . . . I reckon +they’ll bury me here . . .<br /> +Not a soul from the seaport my birthplace—will come, or +bestow me . . . a tear.</p> +<h2><a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +157</span>FETCHING HER</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span class="smcap">An</span> +hour before the dawn,<br /> + My friend,<br /> +You lit your waiting bedside-lamp,<br /> + Your breakfast-fire anon,<br /> +And outing into the dark and damp<br /> + You saddled, and set on.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Thuswise, before the day,<br +/> + My friend,<br /> +You sought her on her surfy shore,<br /> + To fetch her thence away<br /> +Unto your own new-builded door<br /> + For a staunch lifelong stay.</p> +<p class="poetry"> You said: “It seems to +be,<br /> + My friend,<br /> +That I were bringing to my place<br /> + The pure brine breeze, the sea,<br /> +The mews—all her old sky and space,<br /> + In bringing her with me!”</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page158"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 158</span>—But time is prompt to +expugn,<br /> + My friend,<br /> +Such magic-minted conjurings:<br /> + The brought breeze fainted soon,<br /> +And then the sense of seamews’ wings,<br /> + And the shore’s sibilant tune.</p> +<p class="poetry"> So, it had been more due,<br +/> + My friend,<br /> +Perhaps, had you not pulled this flower<br /> + From the craggy nook it knew,<br /> +And set it in an alien bower;<br /> + But left it where it grew!</p> +<h2><a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +159</span>“COULD I BUT WILL”<br /> +(<span class="smcap">Song</span>: <i>Verses</i> 1, 3, <i>key +major</i>; <i>verse</i> 2, <i>key minor</i>)</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Could</span> I but will,<br /> + Will to my bent,<br /> +I’d have afar ones near me still,<br /> +And music of rare ravishment,<br /> +In strains that move the toes and heels!<br /> +And when the sweethearts sat for rest<br /> +The unbetrothed should foot with zest<br /> + Ecstatic reels.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Could I be +head,<br /> + Head-god, “Come, now,<br /> +Dear girl,” I’d say, “whose flame is fled,<br +/> +Who liest with linen-banded brow,<br /> +Stirred but by shakes from Earth’s deep +core—”<br /> +I’d say to her: “Unshroud and meet<br /> +That Love who kissed and called thee Sweet!—<br /> + Yea, come once more!”</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a +name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 160</span>Even +half-god power<br /> + In spinning dooms<br /> +Had I, this frozen scene should flower,<br /> +And sand-swept plains and Arctic glooms<br /> +Should green them gay with waving leaves,<br /> +Mid which old friends and I would walk<br /> +With weightless feet and magic talk<br /> + Uncounted eves.</p> +<h2><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 161</span>SHE +REVISITS ALONE THE CHURCH OF HER MARRIAGE</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">have</span> come to the +church and chancel,<br /> + Where all’s the same!<br /> +—Brighter and larger in my dreams<br /> +Truly it shaped than now, meseems,<br /> + Is its substantial frame.<br /> +But, anyhow, I made my vow,<br /> + Whether for praise or blame,<br /> +Here in this church and chancel<br /> + Where all’s the same.</p> +<p class="poetry">Where touched the check-floored chancel<br /> + My knees and his?<br /> +The step looks shyly at the sun,<br /> +And says, “’Twas here the thing was done,<br /> + For bale or else for bliss!”<br /> +Of all those there I least was ware<br /> + Would it be that or this<br /> +When touched the check-floored chancel<br /> + My knees and his!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +162</span>Here in this fateful chancel<br /> + Where all’s the same,<br /> +I thought the culminant crest of life<br /> +Was reached when I went forth the wife<br /> + I was not when I came.<br /> +Each commonplace one of my race,<br /> + Some say, has such an aim—<br /> +To go from a fateful chancel<br /> + As not the same.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here, through this hoary chancel<br /> + Where all’s the same,<br /> +A thrill, a gaiety even, ranged<br /> +That morning when it seemed I changed<br /> + My nature with my name.<br /> +Though now not fair, though gray my hair,<br /> + He loved me, past proclaim,<br /> +Here in this hoary chancel,<br /> + Where all’s the same.</p> +<h2><a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 163</span>AT +THE ENTERING OF THE NEW YEAR</h2> +<h3>I<br /> +(OLD STYLE)</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Our</span> songs went up +and out the chimney,<br /> +And roused the home-gone husbandmen;<br /> +Our allemands, our heys, poussettings,<br /> +Our hands-across and back again,<br /> +Sent rhythmic throbbings through the casements<br /> + On to the white highway,<br /> +Where nighted farers paused and muttered,<br /> + “Keep it up well, do they!”</p> +<p class="poetry">The contrabasso’s measured booming<br /> +Sped at each bar to the parish bounds,<br /> +To shepherds at their midnight lambings,<br /> +To stealthy poachers on their rounds;<br /> +And everybody caught full duly<br /> + The notes of our delight,<br /> +As Time unrobed the Youth of Promise<br /> + Hailed by our sanguine sight.</p> +<h3><a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +164</span>II<br /> +(NEW STYLE)</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span class="smcap">We</span> +stand in the dusk of a pine-tree limb,<br /> + As if to give ear to the muffled peal,<br /> + Brought or withheld at the breeze’s whim;<br +/> + But our truest heed is to words that steal<br /> + From the mantled ghost that looms in the gray,<br /> + And seems, so far as our sense can see,<br /> + To feature bereaved Humanity,<br /> + As it sighs to the imminent year its say:—</p> +<p class="poetry"> “O stay without, O stay +without,<br /> + Calm comely Youth, untasked, untired;<br /> + Though stars irradiate thee about<br /> + Thy entrance here is undesired.<br /> + Open the gate not, mystic one;<br /> +Must we avow what we would close confine?<br /> +<i>With thee</i>, <i>good friend</i>, <i>we would have converse +none</i>,<br /> + Albeit the fault may not be thine.”</p> +<p><i>December</i> 31. <i>During the War</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 165</span>THEY +WOULD NOT COME</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">travelled</span> to where +in her lifetime<br /> + She’d knelt at morning prayer,<br /> + To call her up as if there;<br /> +But she paid no heed to my suing,<br /> +As though her old haunt could win not<br /> + A thought from her spirit, or care.</p> +<p class="poetry">I went where my friend had lectioned<br /> + The prophets in high declaim,<br /> + That my soul’s ear the same<br /> +Full tones should catch as aforetime;<br /> +But silenced by gear of the Present<br /> + Was the voice that once there came!</p> +<p class="poetry">Where the ocean had sprayed our banquet<br /> + I stood, to recall it as then:<br /> + The same eluding again!<br /> +No vision. Shows contingent<br /> +Affrighted it further from me<br /> + Even than from my home-den.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +166</span>When I found them no responders,<br /> + But fugitives prone to flee<br /> + From where they had used to be,<br /> +It vouched I had been led hither<br /> +As by night wisps in bogland,<br /> + And bruised the heart of me!</p> +<h2><a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +167</span>AFTER A ROMANTIC DAY</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">The</span> railway bore him through<br /> + An earthen cutting out from a +city:<br /> + There was no scope for view,<br /> +Though the frail light shed by a slim young moon<br /> + Fell like a friendly tune.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Fell like a liquid ditty,<br +/> +And the blank lack of any charm<br /> + Of landscape did no harm.<br /> +The bald steep cutting, rigid, rough,<br /> + And moon-lit, was enough<br /> +For poetry of place: its weathered face<br /> +Formed a convenient sheet whereon<br /> +The visions of his mind were drawn.</p> +<h2><a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 168</span>THE +TWO WIVES<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(SMOKER’S CLUB-STORY)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">waited</span> at home all +the while they were boating together—<br /> + My wife and my near +neighbour’s wife:<br /> + Till there entered a woman I loved more than +life,<br /> +And we sat and sat on, and beheld the uprising dark weather,<br +/> + With a sense that some mischief +was rife.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tidings came that the boat had capsized, and +that one of the ladies<br /> + Was drowned—which of them +was unknown:<br /> + And I marvelled—my friend’s +wife?—or was it my own<br /> +Who had gone in such wise to the land where the sun as the shade +is?<br /> + —We learnt it was <i>his</i> +had so gone.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +169</span>Then I cried in unrest: “He is free! But no +good is releasing<br /> + To him as it would be to +me!”<br /> + “—But it is,” said the woman I +loved, quietly.<br /> +“How?” I asked her. “—Because he +has long loved me too without ceasing,<br /> + And it’s just the same +thing, don’t you see.”</p> +<h2><a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +170</span>“I KNEW A LADY”<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(CLUB SONG)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">knew</span> a lady when +the days<br /> + Grew long, and evenings goldened;<br /> + But I was not emboldened<br /> +By her prompt eyes and winning ways.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when old Winter nipt the haws,<br /> + “Another’s wife I’ll be,<br /> + And then you’ll care for me,”<br /> +She said, “and think how sweet I was!”</p> +<p class="poetry">And soon she shone as another’s wife:<br +/> + As such I often met her,<br /> + And sighed, “How I regret her!<br /> +My folly cuts me like a knife!”</p> +<p class="poetry">And then, to-day, her husband came,<br /> + And moaned, “Why did you flout her?<br /> + Well could I do without her!<br /> +For both our burdens you are to blame!”</p> +<h2><a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 171</span>A +HOUSE WITH A HISTORY</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> is a house in +a city street<br /> + Some past ones made their own;<br /> +Its floors were criss-crossed by their feet,<br /> + And their babblings beat<br /> + From ceiling to white hearth-stone.</p> +<p class="poetry">And who are peopling its parlours now?<br /> + Who talk across its floor?<br /> +Mere freshlings are they, blank of brow,<br /> + Who read not how<br /> + Its prime had passed before</p> +<p class="poetry">Their raw equipments, scenes, and says<br /> + Afflicted its memoried face,<br /> +That had seen every larger phase<br /> + Of human ways<br /> + Before these filled the place.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +172</span>To them that house’s tale is theirs,<br /> + No former voices call<br /> +Aloud therein. Its aspect bears<br /> + Their joys and cares<br /> + Alone, from wall to wall.</p> +<h2><a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 173</span>A +PROCESSION OF DEAD DAYS</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">see</span> the ghost of a +perished day;<br /> +I know his face, and the feel of his dawn:<br /> +’Twas he who took me far away<br /> + To a spot strange and gray:<br /> +Look at me, Day, and then pass on,<br /> +But come again: yes, come anon!</p> +<p class="poetry">Enters another into view;<br /> +His features are not cold or white,<br /> +But rosy as a vein seen through:<br /> + Too soon he smiles adieu.<br /> +Adieu, O ghost-day of delight;<br /> +But come and grace my dying sight.</p> +<p class="poetry">Enters the day that brought the kiss:<br /> +He brought it in his foggy hand<br /> +To where the mumbling river is,<br /> + And the high clematis;<br /> +It lent new colour to the land,<br /> +And all the boy within me manned.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +174</span>Ah, this one. Yes, I know his name,<br /> +He is the day that wrought a shine<br /> +Even on a precinct common and tame,<br /> + As ’twere of purposed aim.<br /> +He shows him as a rainbow sign<br /> +Of promise made to me and mine.</p> +<p class="poetry">The next stands forth in his morning +clothes,<br /> +And yet, despite their misty blue,<br /> +They mark no sombre custom-growths<br /> + That joyous living loathes,<br /> +But a meteor act, that left in its queue<br /> +A train of sparks my lifetime through.</p> +<p class="poetry">I almost tremble at his nod—<br /> +This next in train—who looks at me<br /> +As I were slave, and he were god<br /> + Wielding an iron rod.<br /> +I close my eyes; yet still is he<br /> +In front there, looking mastery.</p> +<p class="poetry">In the similitude of a nurse<br /> +The phantom of the next one comes:<br /> +I did not know what better or worse<br /> + Chancings might bless or curse<br /> +When his original glossed the thrums<br /> +Of ivy, bringing that which numbs.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +175</span>Yes; trees were turning in their sleep<br /> +Upon their windy pillows of gray<br /> +When he stole in. Silent his creep<br /> + On the grassed eastern steep . . .<br /> +I shall not soon forget that day,<br /> +And what his third hour took away!</p> +<h2><a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 176</span>HE +FOLLOWS HIMSELF</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> a heavy time I +dogged myself<br /> + Along a louring way,<br /> +Till my leading self to my following self<br /> + Said: “Why do you hang on me<br /> + So harassingly?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I have watched you, Heart of +mine,” I cried,<br /> + “So often going astray<br /> +And leaving me, that I have pursued,<br /> + Feeling such truancy<br /> + Ought not to be.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He said no more, and I dogged him on<br /> + From noon to the dun of day<br /> +By prowling paths, until anew<br /> + He begged: “Please turn and flee!—<br /> + What do you see?”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +177</span>“Methinks I see a man,” said I,<br /> + “Dimming his hours to gray.<br /> +I will not leave him while I know<br /> + Part of myself is he<br /> + Who dreams such dree!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I go to my old friend’s +house,” he urged,<br /> + “So do not watch me, pray!”<br /> +“Well, I will leave you in peace,” said I,<br /> + “Though of this poignancy<br /> + You should fight free:</p> +<p class="poetry">“Your friend, O other me, is dead;<br /> + You know not what you say.”<br /> +—“That do I! And at his green-grassed door<br +/> + By night’s bright galaxy<br /> + I bend a knee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">—The yew-plumes moved like mockers’ +beards,<br /> + Though only boughs were they,<br /> +And I seemed to go; yet still was there,<br /> + And am, and there haunt we<br /> + Thus bootlessly.</p> +<h2><a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 178</span>THE +SINGING WOMAN</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">There</span> was a singing woman<br /> + Came riding across the mead<br /> + At the time of the mild May weather,<br /> + Tameless, +tireless;<br /> +This song she sung: “I am fair, I am young!”<br /> + And many turned to heed.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And the same singing woman<br +/> + Sat crooning in her need<br /> + At the time of the winter weather;<br /> + Friendless, +fireless,<br /> +She sang this song: “Life, thou’rt too +long!”<br /> + And there was none to heed.</p> +<h2><a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +179</span>WITHOUT, NOT WITHIN HER</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It</span> was what you bore +with you, Woman,<br /> + Not inly were,<br /> +That throned you from all else human,<br /> + However fair!</p> +<p class="poetry">It was that strange freshness you carried<br /> + Into a soul<br /> +Whereon no thought of yours tarried<br /> + Two moments at all.</p> +<p class="poetry">And out from his spirit flew death,<br /> + And bale, and ban,<br /> +Like the corn-chaff under the breath<br /> + Of the winnowing-fan.</p> +<h2><a name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +180</span>“O I WON’T LEAD A HOMELY LIFE”<br /> +(<i>To an old air</i>)</h2> +<p class="poetry">“O I won’t lead a homely life<br /> +As father’s Jack and mother’s Jill,<br /> +But I will be a fiddler’s wife,<br /> + With music mine at will!<br /> + Just a little tune,<br /> + Another one soon,<br /> + As I merrily fling my fill!”</p> +<p class="poetry">And she became a fiddler’s Dear,<br /> +And merry all day she strove to be;<br /> +And he played and played afar and near,<br /> + But never at home played he<br /> + Any little tune<br /> + Or late or soon;<br /> + And sunk and sad was she!</p> +<h2><a name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 181</span>IN +THE SMALL HOURS</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">lay</span> in my bed and +fiddled<br /> + With a dreamland viol and bow,<br /> +And the tunes flew back to my fingers<br /> + I had melodied years ago.<br /> +It was two or three in the morning<br /> + When I fancy-fiddled so<br /> +Long reels and country-dances,<br /> + And hornpipes swift and slow.</p> +<p class="poetry">And soon anon came crossing<br /> + The chamber in the gray<br /> +Figures of jigging fieldfolk—<br /> + Saviours of corn and hay—<br /> +To the air of “Haste to the Wedding,”<br /> + As after a wedding-day;<br /> +Yea, up and down the middle<br /> + In windless whirls went they!</p> +<p class="poetry">There danced the bride and bridegroom,<br /> + And couples in a train,<br /> +Gay partners time and travail<br /> + Had longwhiles stilled amain! . . .<br /> +<a name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 182</span>It +seemed a thing for weeping<br /> + To find, at slumber’s wane<br /> +And morning’s sly increeping,<br /> + That Now, not Then, held reign.</p> +<h2><a name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 183</span>THE +LITTLE OLD TABLE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Creak</span>, little wood +thing, creak,<br /> +When I touch you with elbow or knee;<br /> +That is the way you speak<br /> +Of one who gave you to me!</p> +<p class="poetry">You, little table, she brought—<br /> +Brought me with her own hand,<br /> +As she looked at me with a thought<br /> +That I did not understand.</p> +<p class="poetry">—Whoever owns it anon,<br /> +And hears it, will never know<br /> +What a history hangs upon<br /> +This creak from long ago.</p> +<h2><a name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 184</span>VAGG +HOLLOW</h2> +<p>Vagg Hollow is a marshy spot on the old Roman Road near +Ilchester, where “things” are seen. Merchandise +was formerly fetched inland from the canal-boats at Load-Bridge +by waggons this way.</p> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">What</span> do you +see in Vagg Hollow,<br /> +Little boy, when you go<br /> +In the morning at five on your lonely drive?”<br /> +“—I see men’s souls, who follow<br /> +Till we’ve passed where the road lies low,<br /> +When they vanish at our creaking!</p> +<p class="poetry">“They are like white faces speaking<br /> +Beside and behind the waggon—<br /> +One just as father’s was when here.<br /> +The waggoner drinks from his flagon,<br /> +(Or he’d flinch when the Hollow is near)<br /> +But he does not give me any.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Sometimes the faces are many;<br /> +But I walk along by the horses,<br /> +He asleep on the straw as we jog;<br /> +And I hear the loud water-courses,<br /> +And the drops from the trees in the fog,<br /> +And watch till the day is breaking.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +185</span>“And the wind out by Tintinhull waking;<br /> +I hear in it father’s call<br /> +As he called when I saw him dying,<br /> +And he sat by the fire last Fall,<br /> +And mother stood by sighing;<br /> +But I’m not afraid at all!”</p> +<h2><a name="page186"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 186</span>THE +DREAM IS—WHICH?</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">am</span> laughing by the +brook with her,<br /> + Splashed in its tumbling stir;<br /> +And then it is a blankness looms<br /> + As if I walked not there,<br /> +Nor she, but found me in haggard rooms,<br /> + And treading a lonely stair.</p> +<p class="poetry">With radiant cheeks and rapid eyes<br /> + We sit where none espies;<br /> +Till a harsh change comes edging in<br /> + As no such scene were there,<br /> +But winter, and I were bent and thin,<br /> + And cinder-gray my hair.</p> +<p class="poetry">We dance in heys around the hall,<br /> + Weightless as thistleball;<br /> +And then a curtain drops between,<br /> + As if I danced not there,<br /> +But wandered through a mounded green<br /> + To find her, I knew where.</p> +<p><i>March</i> 1913.</p> +<h2><a name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 187</span>THE +COUNTRY WEDDING<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(A FIDDLER’S STORY)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Little</span> fogs were +gathered in every hollow,<br /> +But the purple hillocks enjoyed fine weather<br /> +As we marched with our fiddles over the heather<br /> +—How it comes back!—to their wedding that day.</p> +<p class="poetry">Our getting there brought our neighbours and +all, O!<br /> +Till, two and two, the couples stood ready.<br /> +And her father said: “Souls, for God’s sake, be +steady!”<br /> +And we strung up our fiddles, and sounded out +“A.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +188</span>The groomsman he stared, and said, “You must +follow!”<br /> +But we’d gone to fiddle in front of the party,<br /> +(Our feelings as friends being true and hearty)<br /> +And fiddle in front we did—all the way.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yes, from their door by Mill-tail-Shallow,<br +/> +And up Styles-Lane, and by Front-Street houses,<br /> +Where stood maids, bachelors, and spouses,<br /> +Who cheered the songs that we knew how to play.</p> +<p class="poetry">I bowed the treble before her father,<br /> +Michael the tenor in front of the lady,<br /> +The bass-viol Reub—and right well played he!—<br /> +The serpent Jim; ay, to church and back.</p> +<p class="poetry">I thought the bridegroom was flurried +rather,<br /> +As we kept up the tune outside the chancel,<br /> +While they were swearing things none can cancel<br /> +Inside the walls to our drumstick’s whack.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +189</span>“Too gay!” she pleaded. “Clouds +may gather,<br /> +And sorrow come.” But she gave in, laughing,<br /> +And by supper-time when we’d got to the quaffing<br /> +Her fears were forgot, and her smiles weren’t slack.</p> +<p class="poetry">A grand wedding ’twas! And what +would follow<br /> +We never thought. Or that we should have buried her<br /> +On the same day with the man that married her,<br /> +A day like the first, half hazy, half clear.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yes: little fogs were in every hollow,<br /> +Though the purple hillocks enjoyed fine weather,<br /> +When we went to play ’em to church together,<br /> +And carried ’em there in an after year.</p> +<h2><a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +190</span>FIRST OR LAST<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(SONG)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span class="smcap">If</span> +grief come early<br /> + Joy comes late,<br /> + If joy come early<br /> + Grief will wait;<br /> + Aye, my dear and tender!</p> +<p class="poetry">Wise ones joy them early<br /> +While the cheeks are red,<br /> +Banish grief till surly<br /> +Time has dulled their dread.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And joy being ours<br /> + Ere youth has flown,<br /> + The later hours<br /> + May find us gone;<br /> + Aye, my dear and tender!</p> +<h2><a name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +191</span>LONELY DAYS</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Lonely</span> her fate +was,<br /> +Environed from sight<br /> +In the house where the gate was<br /> +Past finding at night.<br /> +None there to share it,<br /> +No one to tell:<br /> +Long she’d to bear it,<br /> +And bore it well.</p> +<p class="poetry">Elsewhere just so she<br /> +Spent many a day;<br /> +Wishing to go she<br /> +Continued to stay.<br /> +And people without<br /> +Basked warm in the air,<br /> +But none sought her out,<br /> +Or knew she was there.<br /> +Even birthdays were passed so,<br /> +Sunny and shady:<br /> +Years did it last so<br /> +For this sad lady.<br /> +<a name="page192"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 192</span>Never +declaring it,<br /> +No one to tell,<br /> +Still she kept bearing it—<br /> +Bore it well.</p> +<p class="poetry">The days grew chillier,<br /> +And then she went<br /> +To a city, familiar<br /> +In years forespent,<br /> +When she walked gaily<br /> +Far to and fro,<br /> +But now, moving frailly,<br /> +Could nowhere go.<br /> +The cheerful colour<br /> +Of houses she’d known<br /> +Had died to a duller<br /> +And dingier tone.<br /> +Streets were now noisy<br /> +Where once had rolled<br /> +A few quiet coaches,<br /> +Or citizens strolled.<br /> +Through the party-wall<br /> +Of the memoried spot<br /> +They danced at a ball<br /> +Who recalled her not.<br /> +Tramlines lay crossing<br /> +Once gravelled slopes,<br /> +Metal rods clanked,<br /> +And electric ropes.<br /> +<a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 193</span>So she +endured it all,<br /> +Thin, thinner wrought,<br /> +Until time cured it all,<br /> +And she knew nought.</p> +<p>Versified from a Diary.</p> +<h2><a name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +194</span>“WHAT DID IT MEAN?”</h2> +<p class="poetry">What did it mean that noontide, when<br /> +You bade me pluck the flower<br /> +Within the other woman’s bower,<br /> + Whom I knew nought of then?</p> +<p class="poetry">I thought the flower blushed +deeplier—aye,<br /> +And as I drew its stalk to me<br /> +It seemed to breathe: “I am, I see,<br /> +Made use of in a human play.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And while I plucked, upstarted sheer<br /> +As phantom from the pane thereby<br /> +A corpse-like countenance, with eye<br /> +That iced me by its baleful peer—<br /> + Silent, as from a bier . . .</p> +<p class="poetry">When I came back your face had changed,<br /> + It was no face for me;<br /> +O did it speak of hearts estranged,<br /> + And deadly rivalry</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page195"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 195</span>In times before<br /> + I darked your door,<br /> + To seise me of<br /> + Mere second love,<br /> +Which still the haunting first deranged?</p> +<h2><a name="page196"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 196</span>AT +THE DINNER-TABLE</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">sat</span> at dinner in +my prime,<br /> +And glimpsed my face in the sideboard-glass,<br /> +And started as if I had seen a crime,<br /> +And prayed the ghastly show might pass.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wrenched wrinkled features met my sight,<br /> +Grinning back to me as my own;<br /> +I well-nigh fainted with affright<br /> +At finding me a haggard crone.</p> +<p class="poetry">My husband laughed. He had slily set<br +/> +A warping mirror there, in whim<br /> +To startle me. My eyes grew wet;<br /> +I spoke not all the eve to him.</p> +<p class="poetry">He was sorry, he said, for what he had done,<br +/> +And took away the distorting glass,<br /> +Uncovering the accustomed one;<br /> +And so it ended? No, alas,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page197"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +197</span>Fifty years later, when he died,<br /> +I sat me in the selfsame chair,<br /> +Thinking of him. Till, weary-eyed,<br /> +I saw the sideboard facing there;</p> +<p class="poetry">And from its mirror looked the lean<br /> +Thing I’d become, each wrinkle and score<br /> +The image of me that I had seen<br /> +In jest there fifty years before.</p> +<h2><a name="page198"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 198</span>THE +MARBLE TABLET</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> it stands, +though alas, what a little of her<br /> + Shows in its cold white look!<br /> +Not her glance, glide, or smile; not a tittle of her<br /> + Voice like the purl of a brook;<br /> + Not her thoughts, that you read like a book.</p> +<p class="poetry">It may stand for her once in November<br /> + When first she breathed, witless of all;<br /> +Or in heavy years she would remember<br /> + When circumstance held her in thrall;<br /> + Or at last, when she answered her call!</p> +<p class="poetry">Nothing more. The still marble, +date-graven,<br /> + Gives all that it can, tersely lined;<br /> +That one has at length found the haven<br /> + Which every one other will find;<br /> + With silence on what shone behind.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">St. Juliot</span>: <i>September</i> 8, +1916.</p> +<h2><a name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 199</span>THE +MASTER AND THE LEAVES</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> are budding, +Master, budding,<br /> + We of your favourite tree;<br /> +March drought and April flooding<br /> + Arouse us merrily,<br /> +Our stemlets newly studding;<br /> + And yet you do not see!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry">We are fully woven for summer<br /> + In stuff of limpest green,<br /> +The twitterer and the hummer<br /> + Here rest of nights, unseen,<br /> +While like a long-roll drummer<br /> + The nightjar thrills the treen.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page200"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 200</span>III</p> +<p class="poetry">We are turning yellow, Master,<br /> + And next we are turning red,<br /> +And faster then and faster<br /> + Shall seek our rooty bed,<br /> +All wasted in disaster!<br /> + But you lift not your head.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IV</p> +<p class="poetry">—“I mark your early going,<br /> + And that you’ll soon be clay,<br /> +I have seen your summer showing<br /> + As in my youthful day;<br /> +But why I seem unknowing<br /> + Is too sunk in to say!”</p> +<p>1917.</p> +<h2><a name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 201</span>LAST +WORDS TO A DUMB FRIEND</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Pet</span> was never +mourned as you,<br /> +Purrer of the spotless hue,<br /> +Plumy tail, and wistful gaze<br /> +While you humoured our queer ways,<br /> +Or outshrilled your morning call<br /> +Up the stairs and through the hall—<br /> +Foot suspended in its fall—<br /> +While, expectant, you would stand<br /> +Arched, to meet the stroking hand;<br /> +Till your way you chose to wend<br /> +Yonder, to your tragic end.</p> +<p class="poetry">Never another pet for me!<br /> +Let your place all vacant be;<br /> +Better blankness day by day<br /> +Than companion torn away.<br /> +Better bid his memory fade,<br /> +Better blot each mark he made,<br /> +<a name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +202</span>Selfishly escape distress<br /> +By contrived forgetfulness,<br /> +Than preserve his prints to make<br /> +Every morn and eve an ache.</p> +<p class="poetry">From the chair whereon he sat<br /> +Sweep his fur, nor wince thereat;<br /> +Rake his little pathways out<br /> +Mid the bushes roundabout;<br /> +Smooth away his talons’ mark<br /> +From the claw-worn pine-tree bark,<br /> +Where he climbed as dusk embrowned,<br /> +Waiting us who loitered round.</p> +<p class="poetry">Strange it is this speechless thing,<br /> +Subject to our mastering,<br /> +Subject for his life and food<br /> +To our gift, and time, and mood;<br /> +Timid pensioner of us Powers,<br /> +His existence ruled by ours,<br /> +Should—by crossing at a breath<br /> +Into safe and shielded death,<br /> +By the merely taking hence<br /> +Of his insignificance—<br /> +Loom as largened to the sense,<br /> +Shape as part, above man’s will,<br /> +Of the Imperturbable.</p> +<p class="poetry">As a prisoner, flight debarred,<br /> +Exercising in a yard,<br /> +<a name="page203"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 203</span>Still +retain I, troubled, shaken,<br /> +Mean estate, by him forsaken;<br /> +And this home, which scarcely took<br /> +Impress from his little look,<br /> +By his faring to the Dim<br /> +Grows all eloquent of him.</p> +<p class="poetry">Housemate, I can think you still<br /> +Bounding to the window-sill,<br /> +Over which I vaguely see<br /> +Your small mound beneath the tree,<br /> +Showing in the autumn shade<br /> +That you moulder where you played.</p> +<p><i>October</i> 2, 1904.</p> +<h2><a name="page204"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 204</span>A +DRIZZLING EASTER MORNING</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">And</span> he is +risen? Well, be it so . . .<br /> +And still the pensive lands complain,<br /> +And dead men wait as long ago,<br /> +As if, much doubting, they would know<br /> +What they are ransomed from, before<br /> +They pass again their sheltering door.</p> +<p class="poetry">I stand amid them in the rain,<br /> +While blusters vex the yew and vane;<br /> +And on the road the weary wain<br /> +Plods forward, laden heavily;<br /> +And toilers with their aches are fain<br /> +For endless rest—though risen is he.</p> +<h2><a name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 205</span>ON +ONE WHO LIVED AND DIED WHERE HE WAS BORN</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> a night in +November<br /> + Blew forth its bleared airs<br /> +An infant descended<br /> + His birth-chamber stairs<br /> + For the very first time,<br /> + At the still, midnight chime;<br /> +All unapprehended<br /> + His mission, his aim.—<br /> +Thus, first, one November,<br /> +An infant descended<br /> + The stairs.</p> +<p class="poetry">On a night in November<br /> + Of weariful cares,<br /> +A frail aged figure<br /> + Ascended those stairs<br /> + For the very last time:<br /> + All gone his life’s prime,<br /> +All vanished his vigour,<br /> + <a name="page206"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +206</span>And fine, forceful frame:<br /> +Thus, last, one November<br /> +Ascended that figure<br /> + Upstairs.</p> +<p class="poetry">On those nights in November—<br /> + Apart eighty years—<br /> +The babe and the bent one<br /> + Who traversed those stairs<br /> + From the early first time<br /> + To the last feeble climb—<br /> +That fresh and that spent one—<br /> + Were even the same:<br /> +Yea, who passed in November<br /> +As infant, as bent one,<br /> + Those stairs.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wise child of November!<br /> + From birth to blanched hairs<br /> +Descending, ascending,<br /> + Wealth-wantless, those stairs;<br /> + Who saw quick in time<br /> + As a vain pantomime<br /> +Life’s tending, its ending,<br /> + The worth of its fame.<br /> +Wise child of November,<br /> +Descending, ascending<br /> + Those stairs!</p> +<h2><a name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 207</span>THE +SECOND NIGHT<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(BALLAD)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">missed</span> one night, +but the next I went;<br /> + It was gusty above, and clear;<br /> +She was there, with the look of one ill-content,<br /> + And said: “Do not come near!”</p> +<p class="poetry">—“I am sorry last night to have +failed you here,<br /> + And now I have travelled all day;<br /> +And it’s long rowing back to the West-Hoe Pier,<br /> + So brief must be my stay.”</p> +<p class="poetry">—“O man of mystery, why not say<br +/> + Out plain to me all you mean?<br /> +Why you missed last night, and must now away<br /> + Is—another has come between!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page208"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +208</span>—“O woman so mocking in mood and mien,<br +/> + So be it!” I replied:<br /> +“And if I am due at a differing scene<br /> + Before the dark has died,</p> +<p class="poetry">“’Tis that, unresting, to wander +wide<br /> + Has ever been my plight,<br /> +And at least I have met you at Cremyll side<br /> + If not last eve, to-night.”</p> +<p class="poetry">—“You get small rest—that +read I quite;<br /> + And so do I, maybe;<br /> +Though there’s a rest hid safe from sight<br /> + Elsewhere awaiting me!”</p> +<p class="poetry">A mad star crossed the sky to the sea,<br /> + Wasting in sparks as it streamed,<br /> +And when I looked to where stood she<br /> + She had changed, much changed, it seemed:</p> +<p class="poetry">The sparks of the star in her pupils +gleamed,<br /> + She was vague as a vapour now,<br /> +And ere of its meaning I had dreamed<br /> + She’d vanished—I knew not how.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page209"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +209</span>I stood on, long; each cliff-top bough,<br /> + Like a cynic nodding there,<br /> +Moved up and down, though no man’s brow<br /> + But mine met the wayward air.</p> +<p class="poetry">Still stood I, wholly unaware<br /> + Of what had come to pass,<br /> +Or had brought the secret of my new Fair<br /> + To my old Love, alas!</p> +<p class="poetry">I went down then by crag and grass<br /> + To the boat wherein I had come.<br /> +Said the man with the oars: “This news of the lass<br /> + Of Edgcumbe, is sharp for some!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yes: found this daybreak, stiff and +numb<br /> + On the shore here, whither she’d sped<br /> +To meet her lover last night in the glum,<br /> + And he came not, ’tis said.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And she leapt down, heart-hit. +Pity she’s dead:<br /> + So much for the faithful-bent!” . . .<br /> +I looked, and again a star overhead<br /> + Shot through the firmament.</p> +<h2><a name="page210"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 210</span>SHE +WHO SAW NOT</h2> +<p class="poetry"> “<span +class="smcap">Did</span> you see something within the house<br /> +That made me call you before the red sunsetting?<br /> +Something that all this common scene endows<br /> +With a richened impress there can be no forgetting?”</p> +<p class="poetry"> “—I have found +nothing to see therein,<br /> +O Sage, that should have made you urge me to enter,<br /> +Nothing to fire the soul, or the sense to win:<br /> +I rate you as a rare misrepresenter!”</p> +<p class="poetry"> “—Go anew, +Lady,—in by the right . . .<br /> +Well: why does your face not shine like the face of +Moses?”<br /> +<a name="page211"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +211</span>“—I found no moving thing there save the +light<br /> +And shadow flung on the wall by the outside roses.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> “—Go yet once +more, pray. Look on a seat.”<br /> +“—I go . . . O Sage, it’s only a man that sits +there<br /> +With eyes on the sun. Mute,—average head to +feet.”<br /> +“—No more?”—“No more. Just +one the place befits there,</p> +<p class="poetry"> “As the rays reach in +through the open door,<br /> +And he looks at his hand, and the sun glows through his +fingers,<br /> +While he’s thinking thoughts whose tenour is no more<br /> +To me than the swaying rose-tree shade that lingers.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> No more. And years drew +on and on<br /> +Till no sun came, dank fogs the house enfolding;<br /> +And she saw inside, when the form in the flesh had gone,<br /> +As a vision what she had missed when the real beholding.</p> +<h2><a name="page212"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 212</span>THE +OLD WORKMAN</h2> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Why</span> are you +so bent down before your time,<br /> +Old mason? Many have not left their prime<br /> +So far behind at your age, and can still<br /> + Stand full upright at will.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He pointed to the mansion-front hard by,<br /> +And to the stones of the quoin against the sky;<br /> +“Those upper blocks,” he said, “that there you +see,<br /> + It was that ruined me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">There stood in the air up to the parapet<br /> +Crowning the corner height, the stones as set<br /> +By him—ashlar whereon the gales might drum<br /> + For centuries to come.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page213"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +213</span>“I carried them up,” he said, “by a +ladder there;<br /> +The last was as big a load as I could bear;<br /> +But on I heaved; and something in my back<br /> + Moved, as ’twere with a crack.</p> +<p class="poetry">“So I got crookt. I never lost that +sprain;<br /> +And those who live there, walled from wind and rain<br /> +By freestone that I lifted, do not know<br /> + That my life’s ache came so.</p> +<p class="poetry">“They don’t know me, or even know +my name,<br /> +But good I think it, somehow, all the same<br /> +To have kept ’em safe from harm, and right and tight,<br /> + Though it has broke me quite.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yes; that I fixed it firm up there I am +proud,<br /> +Facing the hail and snow and sun and cloud,<br /> +And to stand storms for ages, beating round<br /> + When I lie underground.”</p> +<h2><a name="page214"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 214</span>THE +SAILOR’S MOTHER</h2> +<p class="poetry"> “O <span +class="smcap">whence</span> do you come,<br /> +Figure in the night-fog that chills me numb?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I come to you across from my house up +there,<br /> +And I don’t mind the brine-mist clinging to me<br /> + That blows from the quay,<br /> +For I heard him in my chamber, and thought you +unaware.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> “But what did you +hear,<br /> +That brought you blindly knocking in this middle-watch so +drear?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“My sailor son’s voice as +’twere calling at your door,<br /> +And I don’t mind my bare feet clammy on the stones,<br /> + <a name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +215</span>And the blight to my bones,<br /> +For he only knows of <i>this</i> house I lived in +before.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Nobody’s +nigh,<br /> +Woman like a skeleton, with socket-sunk eye.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ah—nobody’s nigh! And +my life is drearisome,<br /> +And this is the old home we loved in many a day<br /> + Before he went away;<br /> +And the salt fog mops me. And nobody’s +come!”</p> +<p>From “To Please his Wife.”</p> +<h2><a name="page216"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +216</span>OUTSIDE THE CASEMENT<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(A REMINISCENCE OF THE WAR)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span class="smcap">We</span> +sat in the room<br /> + And praised her whom<br /> +We saw in the portico-shade outside:<br /> + She could not hear<br /> + What was said of her,<br /> +But smiled, for its purport we did not hide.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Then in was brought<br /> + That message, fraught<br /> +With evil fortune for her out there,<br /> + Whom we loved that day<br /> + More than any could say,<br /> +And would fain have fenced from a waft of care.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And the question pressed<br +/> + Like lead on each breast,<br /> +<a name="page217"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 217</span>Should +we cloak the tidings, or call her and tell?<br /> + It was too intense<br /> + A choice for our sense,<br /> +As we pondered and watched her we loved so well.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Yea, spirit failed us<br /> + At what assailed us;<br /> +How long, while seeing what soon must come,<br /> + Should we counterfeit<br /> + No knowledge of it,<br /> +And stay the stroke that would blanch and numb?</p> +<p class="poetry"> And thus, before<br /> + For evermore<br /> +Joy left her, we practised to beguile<br /> + Her innocence when<br /> + She now and again<br /> +Looked in, and smiled us another smile.</p> +<h2><a name="page218"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 218</span>THE +PASSER-BY<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(L. H. RECALLS HER ROMANCE)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry">He used to pass, well-trimmed and brushed,<br +/> + My window every day,<br /> +And when I smiled on him he blushed,<br /> +That youth, quite as a girl might; aye,<br /> + In the shyest way.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus often did he pass hereby,<br /> + That youth of bounding gait,<br /> +Until the one who blushed was I,<br /> +And he became, as here I sate,<br /> + My joy, my fate.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now he passes by no more,<br /> + That youth I loved too true!<br /> +I grieve should he, as here of yore,<br /> +Pass elsewhere, seated in his view,<br /> + Some maiden new!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page219"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +219</span>If such should be, alas for her!<br /> + He’ll make her feel him dear,<br /> +Become her daily comforter,<br /> +Then tire him of her beauteous gear,<br /> + And disappear!</p> +<h2><a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +220</span>“I WAS THE MIDMOST”</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">was</span> the midmost of +my world<br /> + When first I frisked me free,<br /> +For though within its circuit gleamed<br /> + But a small company,<br /> +And I was immature, they seemed<br /> + To bend their looks on me.</p> +<p class="poetry">She was the midmost of my world<br /> + When I went further forth,<br /> +And hence it was that, whether I turned<br /> + To south, east, west, or north,<br /> +Beams of an all-day Polestar burned<br /> + From that new axe of earth.</p> +<p class="poetry">Where now is midmost in my world?<br /> + I trace it not at all:<br /> +No midmost shows it here, or there,<br /> + When wistful voices call<br /> +“We are fain! We are fain!” from everywhere<br +/> + On Earth’s bewildering ball!</p> +<h2><a name="page221"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 221</span>A +SOUND IN THE NIGHT<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(WOODSFORD CASTLE: 17–)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">What</span> do I +catch upon the night-wind, husband?—<br /> +What is it sounds in this house so eerily?<br /> +It seems to be a woman’s voice: each little while I hear +it,<br /> + And it much troubles me!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“’Tis but the eaves dripping down +upon the plinth-slopes:<br /> +Letting fancies worry thee!—sure ’tis a foolish +thing,<br /> +When we were on’y coupled half-an-hour before the +noontide,<br /> + And now it’s but evening.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yet seems it still a woman’s voice +outside the castle, husband,<br /> +And ’tis cold to-night, and rain beats, and this is a +lonely place.<br /> +Didst thou fathom much of womankind in travel or adventure<br /> + Ere ever thou sawest my face?”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page222"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +222</span>“It may be a tree, bride, that rubs his arms +acrosswise,<br /> +If it is not the eaves-drip upon the lower slopes,<br /> +Or the river at the bend, where it whirls about the hatches<br /> + Like a creature that sighs and mopes.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yet it still seems to me like the crying +of a woman,<br /> +And it saddens me much that so piteous a sound<br /> +On this my bridal night when I would get agone from sorrow<br /> + Should so ghost-like wander round!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“To satisfy thee, Love, I will strike the +flint-and-steel, then,<br /> +And set the rush-candle up, and undo the door,<br /> +And take the new horn-lantern that we bought upon our journey,<br +/> + And throw the light over the moor.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He struck a light, and breeched and booted in +the further chamber,<br /> +And lit the new horn-lantern and went from her sight,<br /> +<a name="page223"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 223</span>And +vanished down the turret; and she heard him pass the postern,<br +/> + And go out into the night.</p> +<p class="poetry">She listened as she lay, till she heard his +step returning,<br /> +And his voice as he unclothed him: “’Twas nothing, as +I said,<br /> +But the nor’-west wind a-blowing from the moor +ath’art the river,<br /> + And the tree that taps the gurgoyle-head.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Nay, husband, you perplex me; for if the +noise I heard here,<br /> +Awaking me from sleep so, were but as you avow,<br /> +The rain-fall, and the wind, and the tree-bough, and the +river,<br /> + Why is it silent now?</p> +<p class="poetry">“And why is thy hand and thy clasping arm +so shaking,<br /> +And thy sleeve and tags of hair so muddy and so wet,<br /> +And why feel I thy heart a-thumping every time thou kissest +me,<br /> + And thy breath as if hard to get?”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page224"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +224</span>He lay there in silence for a while, still quickly +breathing,<br /> +Then started up and walked about the room resentfully:<br /> +“O woman, witch, whom I, in sooth, against my will have +wedded,<br /> + Why castedst thou thy spells on me?</p> +<p class="poetry">“There was one I loved once: the cry you +heard was her cry:<br /> +She came to me to-night, and her plight was passing sore,<br /> +As no woman . . . Yea, and it was e’en the cry you heard, +wife,<br /> + But she will cry no more!</p> +<p class="poetry">“And now I can’t abide thee: this +place, it hath a curse on’t,<br /> +This farmstead once a castle: I’ll get me straight +away!”<br /> +He dressed this time in darkness, unspeaking, as she listened,<br +/> + And went ere the dawn turned day.</p> +<p class="poetry">They found a woman’s body at a spot +called Rocky Shallow,<br /> +Where the Froom stream curves amid the moorland, washed +aground,<br /> +<a name="page225"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 225</span>And they +searched about for him, the yeoman, who had darkly known her,<br +/> + But he could not be found.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the bride left for good-and-all the +farmstead once a castle,<br /> +And in a county far away lives, mourns, and sleeps alone,<br /> +And thinks in windy weather that she hears a woman crying,<br /> + And sometimes an infant’s moan.</p> +<h2><a name="page226"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 226</span>ON A +DISCOVERED CURL OF HAIR</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> your soft +welcomings were said,<br /> +This curl was waving on your head,<br /> +And when we walked where breakers dinned<br /> +It sported in the sun and wind,<br /> +And when I had won your words of grace<br /> +It brushed and clung about my face.<br /> +Then, to abate the misery<br /> +Of absentness, you gave it me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Where are its fellows now? Ah, they<br /> +For brightest brown have donned a gray,<br /> +And gone into a caverned ark,<br /> +Ever unopened, always dark!</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet this one curl, untouched of time,<br /> +Beams with live brown as in its prime,<br /> +So that it seems I even could now<br /> +Restore it to the living brow<br /> +By bearing down the western road<br /> +Till I had reached your old abode.</p> +<p><i>February</i> 1913.</p> +<h2><a name="page227"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 227</span>AN +OLD LIKENESS<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(RECALLING R. T.)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Who</span> would have +thought<br /> +That, not having missed her<br /> +Talks, tears, laughter<br /> +In absence, or sought<br /> +To recall for so long<br /> +Her gamut of song;<br /> +Or ever to waft her<br /> +Signal of aught<br /> +That she, fancy-fanned,<br /> +Would well understand,<br /> +I should have kissed her<br /> +Picture when scanned<br /> +Yawning years after!</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet, seeing her poor<br /> +Dim-outlined form<br /> +Chancewise at night-time,<br /> +Some old allure<br /> +Came on me, warm,<br /> +Fresh, pleadful, pure,<br /> +<a name="page228"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 228</span>As in +that bright time<br /> +At a far season<br /> +Of love and unreason,<br /> +And took me by storm<br /> +Here in this blight-time!</p> +<p class="poetry">And thus it arose<br /> +That, yawning years after<br /> +Our early flows<br /> +Of wit and laughter,<br /> +And framing of rhymes<br /> +At idle times,<br /> +At sight of her painting,<br /> +Though she lies cold<br /> +In churchyard mould,<br /> +I took its feinting<br /> +As real, and kissed it,<br /> +As if I had wist it<br /> +Herself of old.</p> +<h2><a name="page229"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 229</span>HER +APOTHEOSIS<br /> +“Secretum meum mihi”<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(FADED WOMAN’S SONG)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> was a spell of +leisure,<br /> + No record vouches when;<br /> +With honours, praises, pleasure<br /> + To womankind from men.</p> +<p class="poetry">But no such lures bewitched me,<br /> + No hand was stretched to raise,<br /> +No gracious gifts enriched me,<br /> + No voices sang my praise.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet an iris at that season<br /> + Amid the accustomed slight<br /> +From denseness, dull unreason,<br /> + Ringed me with living light.</p> +<h2><a name="page230"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +230</span>“SACRED TO THE MEMORY”<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(MARY H.)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">That</span> “Sacred +to the Memory”<br /> +Is clearly carven there I own,<br /> +And all may think that on the stone<br /> +The words have been inscribed by me<br /> +In bare conventionality.</p> +<p class="poetry">They know not and will never know<br /> +That my full script is not confined<br /> +To that stone space, but stands deep lined<br /> +Upon the landscape high and low<br /> +Wherein she made such worthy show.</p> +<h2><a name="page231"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 231</span>TO A +WELL-NAMED DWELLING</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Glad</span> old house of +lichened stonework,<br /> +What I owed you in my lone work,<br /> + Noon and night!<br /> +Whensoever faint or ailing,<br /> +Letting go my grasp and failing,<br /> + You lent light.</p> +<p class="poetry">How by that fair title came you?<br /> +Did some forward eye so name you<br /> + Knowing that one,<br /> +Sauntering down his century blindly,<br /> +Would remark your sound, so kindly,<br /> + And be won?</p> +<p class="poetry">Smile in sunlight, sleep in moonlight,<br /> +Bask in April, May, and June-light,<br /> + Zephyr-fanned;<br /> +Let your chambers show no sorrow,<br /> +Blanching day, or stuporing morrow,<br /> + While they stand.</p> +<h2><a name="page232"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 232</span>THE +WHIPPER-IN</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">My</span> father was the +whipper-in,—<br /> + Is still—if I’m not misled?<br /> +And now I see, where the hedge is thin,<br /> + A little spot of red;<br /> + Surely it is my father<br /> + Going to the kennel-shed!</p> +<p class="poetry">“I cursed and fought my +father—aye,<br /> + And sailed to a foreign land;<br /> +And feeling sorry, I’m back, to stay,<br /> + Please God, as his helping hand.<br /> + Surely it is my father<br /> + Near where the kennels stand?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“—True. Whipper-in he used to +be<br /> + For twenty years or more;<br /> +And you did go away to sea<br /> + As youths have done before.<br /> + Yes, oddly enough that red there<br /> + Is the very coat he wore.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page233"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +233</span>“But he—he’s dead; was thrown +somehow,<br /> + And gave his back a crick,<br /> +And though that is his coat, ’tis now<br /> + The scarecrow of a rick;<br /> + You’ll see when you get nearer—<br /> + ’Tis spread out on a stick.</p> +<p class="poetry">“You see, when all had settled down<br /> + Your mother’s things were sold,<br /> +And she went back to her own town,<br /> + And the coat, ate out with mould,<br /> + Is now used by the farmer<br /> + For scaring, as ’tis old.”</p> +<h2><a name="page234"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 234</span>A +MILITARY APPOINTMENT<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(SCHERZANDO)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">So</span> back you +have come from the town, Nan, dear!<br /> +And have you seen him there, or near—<br /> + That soldier of mine—<br /> +Who long since promised to meet me here?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“—O yes, Nell: from the town I +come,<br /> +And have seen your lover on sick-leave home—<br /> + That soldier of yours—<br /> +Who swore to meet you, or Strike-him-dumb;</p> +<p class="poetry">“But has kept himself of late away;<br /> +Yet,—in short, he’s coming, I heard him say—<br +/> + That lover of yours—<br /> +To this very spot on this very day.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +235</span>“—Then I’ll wait, I’ll wait, +through wet or dry!<br /> +I’ll give him a goblet brimming high—<br /> + This lover of mine—<br /> +And not of complaint one word or sigh!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“—Nell, him I have chanced so much +to see,<br /> +That—he has grown the lover of me!—<br /> + That lover of yours—<br /> +And it’s here our meeting is planned to be.”</p> +<h2><a name="page236"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 236</span>THE +MILESTONE BY THE RABBIT-BURROW<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(ON YELL’HAM HILL)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> my loamy nook<br +/> +As I dig my hole<br /> +I observe men look<br /> +At a stone, and sigh<br /> +As they pass it by<br /> +To some far goal.</p> +<p class="poetry">Something it says<br /> +To their glancing eyes<br /> +That must distress<br /> +The frail and lame,<br /> +And the strong of frame<br /> +Gladden or surprise.</p> +<p class="poetry">Do signs on its face<br /> +Declare how far<br /> +Feet have to trace<br /> +Before they gain<br /> +Some blest champaign<br /> +Where no gins are?</p> +<h2><a name="page237"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 237</span>THE +LAMENT OF THE LOOKING-GLASS</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Words</span> from the +mirror softly pass<br /> + To the curtains with a sigh:<br /> +“Why should I trouble again to glass<br /> + These smileless things hard by,<br /> +Since she I pleasured once, alas,<br /> + Is now no longer nigh!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I’ve imaged shadows of coursing +cloud,<br /> + And of the plying limb<br /> +On the pensive pine when the air is loud<br /> + With its aerial hymn;<br /> +But never do they make me proud<br /> + To catch them within my rim!</p> +<p class="poetry">“I flash back phantoms of the night<br /> + That sometimes flit by me,<br /> +I echo roses red and white—<br /> + The loveliest blooms that be—<br /> +But now I never hold to sight<br /> + So sweet a flower as she.”</p> +<h2><a name="page238"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +238</span>CROSS-CURRENTS</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">They</span> parted—a +pallid, trembling I pair,<br /> + And rushing down the lane<br /> +He left her lonely near me there;<br /> + —I asked her of their pain.</p> +<p class="poetry">“It is for ever,” at length she +said,<br /> + “His friends have schemed it so,<br /> +That the long-purposed day to wed<br /> + Never shall we two know.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“In such a cruel case,” said I,<br +/> + “Love will contrive a course?”<br /> +“—Well, no . . . A thing may underlie,<br /> + Which robs that of its force;</p> +<p class="poetry">“A thing I could not tell him of,<br /> + Though all the year I have tried;<br /> +This: never could I have given him love,<br /> + Even had I been his bride.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page239"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +239</span>“So, when his kinsfolk stop the way<br /> + Point-blank, there could not be<br /> +A happening in the world to-day<br /> + More opportune for me!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yet hear—no doubt to your +surprise—<br /> + I am sorry, for his sake,<br /> +That I have escaped the sacrifice<br /> + I was prepared to make!”</p> +<h2><a name="page240"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 240</span>THE +OLD NEIGHBOUR AND THE NEW</h2> +<p class="poetry">’<span class="smcap">Twas</span> to greet +the new rector I called I here,<br /> + But in the arm-chair I see<br /> +My old friend, for long years installed here,<br /> + Who palely nods to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">The new man explains what he’s +planning<br /> + In a smart and cheerful tone,<br /> +And I listen, the while that I’m scanning<br /> + The figure behind his own.</p> +<p class="poetry">The newcomer urges things on me;<br /> + I return a vague smile thereto,<br /> +The olden face gazing upon me<br /> + Just as it used to do!</p> +<p class="poetry">And on leaving I scarcely remember<br /> + Which neighbour to-day I have seen,<br /> +The one carried out in September,<br /> + Or him who but entered yestreen.</p> +<h2><a name="page241"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 241</span>THE +CHOSEN</h2> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: +center">“Ατιυά +ἐστιν +ἀλληγορούμενα</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">“A <span class="smcap">woman</span> for +whom great gods might strive!”<br /> + I said, and kissed her there:<br /> +And then I thought of the other five,<br /> + And of how charms outwear.</p> +<p class="poetry">I thought of the first with her eating eyes,<br +/> +And I thought of the second with hers, green-gray,<br /> +And I thought of the third, experienced, wise,<br /> +And I thought of the fourth who sang all day.</p> +<p class="poetry">And I thought of the fifth, whom I’d +called a jade,<br /> + And I thought of them all, tear-fraught;<br /> +And that each had shown her a passable maid,<br /> + Yet not of the favour sought.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page242"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +242</span>So I traced these words on the bark of a beech,<br /> +Just at the falling of the mast:<br /> +“After scanning five; yes, each and each,<br /> +I’ve found the woman desired—at last!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“—I feel a strange benumbing +spell,<br /> + As one ill-wished!” said she.<br /> +And soon it seemed that something fell<br /> + Was starving her love for me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I feel some curse. O, <i>five</i> +were there?”<br /> +And wanly she swerved, and went away.<br /> +I followed sick: night numbed the air,<br /> +And dark the mournful moorland lay.</p> +<p class="poetry">I cried: “O darling, turn your +head!”<br /> + But never her face I viewed;<br /> +“O turn, O turn!” again I said,<br /> + And miserably pursued.</p> +<p class="poetry">At length I came to a Christ-cross stone<br /> +Which she had passed without discern;<br /> +And I knelt upon the leaves there strown,<br /> +And prayed aloud that she might turn.</p> +<p class="poetry">I rose, and looked; and turn she did;<br /> + I cried, “My heart revives!”<br /> +“Look more,” she said. I looked as bid;<br /> + Her face was all the five’s.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page243"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +243</span>All the five women, clear come back,<br /> +I saw in her—with her made one,<br /> +The while she drooped upon the track,<br /> +And her frail term seemed well-nigh run.</p> +<p class="poetry">She’d half forgot me in her change;<br /> + “Who are you? Won’t you say<br /> +Who you may be, you man so strange,<br /> + Following since yesterday?”</p> +<p class="poetry">I took the composite form she was,<br /> +And carried her to an arbour small,<br /> +Not passion-moved, but even because<br /> +In one I could atone to all.</p> +<p class="poetry">And there she lies, and there I tend,<br /> + Till my life’s threads unwind,<br /> +A various womanhood in blend—<br /> + Not one, but all combined.</p> +<h2><a name="page244"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 244</span>THE +INSCRIPTION<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(A TALE)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Sir John</span> was +entombed, and the crypt was closed, and she,<br /> +Like a soul that could meet no more the sight of the sun,<br /> +Inclined her in weepings and prayings continually,<br /> + As his widowed one.</p> +<p class="poetry">And to pleasure her in her sorrow, and fix his +name<br /> +As a memory Time’s fierce frost should never kill,<br /> +She caused to be richly chased a brass to his fame,<br /> + Which should link them still;</p> +<p class="poetry">For she bonded her name with his own on the +brazen page,<br /> +As if dead and interred there with him, and cold, and numb,<br /> +<a name="page245"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +245</span>(Omitting the day of her dying and year of her age<br +/> + Till her end should come;)</p> +<p class="poetry">And implored good people to pray “Of +their Charytie<br /> +For these twaine Soules,”—yea, she who did last +remain<br /> +Forgoing Heaven’s bliss if ever with spouse should she<br +/> + Again have lain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Even there, as it first was set, you may see it +now,<br /> +Writ in quaint Church text, with the date of her death left +bare,<br /> +In the aged Estminster aisle, where the folk yet bow<br /> + Themselves in prayer.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thereafter some years slid, till there came a +day<br /> +When it slowly began to be marked of the standers-by<br /> +That she would regard the brass, and would bend away<br /> + With a drooping sigh.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page246"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +246</span>Now the lady was fair as any the eye might scan<br /> +Through a summer day of roving—a type at whose lip<br /> +Despite her maturing seasons, no meet man<br /> + Would be loth to sip.</p> +<p class="poetry">And her heart was stirred with a lightning love +to its pith<br /> +For a newcomer who, while less in years, was one<br /> +Full eager and able to make her his own forthwith,<br /> + Restrained of none.</p> +<p class="poetry">But she answered Nay, death-white; and still as +he urged<br /> +She adversely spake, overmuch as she loved the while,<br /> +Till he pressed for why, and she led with the face of one +scourged<br /> + To the neighbouring aisle,</p> +<p class="poetry">And showed him the words, ever gleaming upon +her pew,<br /> +Memorizing her there as the knight’s eternal wife,<br /> +Or falsing such, debarred inheritance due<br /> + Of celestial life.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page247"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +247</span>He blenched, and reproached her that one yet +undeceased<br /> +Should bury her future—that future which none can spell;<br +/> +And she wept, and purposed anon to inquire of the priest<br /> + If the price were hell</p> +<p class="poetry">Of her wedding in face of the record. Her +lover agreed,<br /> +And they parted before the brass with a shudderful kiss,<br /> +For it seemed to flash out on their impulse of passionate +need,<br /> + “Mock ye not this!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Well, the priest, whom more perceptions moved +than one,<br /> +Said she erred at the first to have written as if she were +dead<br /> +Her name and adjuration; but since it was done<br /> + Nought could be said</p> +<p class="poetry">Save that she must abide by the pledge, for the +peace of her soul,<br /> +And so, by her life, maintain the apostrophe good,<br /> +If she wished anon to reach the coveted goal<br /> + Of beatitude.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page248"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +248</span>To erase from the consecrate text her prayer as there +prayed<br /> +Would aver that, since earth’s joys most drew her, past +doubt,<br /> +Friends’ prayers for her joy above by Jesu’s aid<br +/> + Could be done without.</p> +<p class="poetry">Moreover she thought of the laughter, the +shrug, the jibe<br /> +That would rise at her back in the nave when she should pass<br +/> +As another’s avowed by the words she had chosen to +inscribe<br /> + On the changeless brass.</p> +<p class="poetry">And so for months she replied to her Love: +“No, no”;<br /> +While sorrow was gnawing her beauties ever and more,<br /> +Till he, long-suffering and weary, grew to show<br /> + Less warmth than before.</p> +<p class="poetry">And, after an absence, wrote words absolute:<br +/> +That he gave her till Midsummer morn to make her mind clear;<br +/> +And that if, by then, she had not said Yea to his suit,<br /> + He should wed elsewhere.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page249"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +249</span>Thence on, at unwonted times through the lengthening +days<br /> +She was seen in the church—at dawn, or when the sun dipt<br +/> +And the moon rose, standing with hands joined, blank of gaze,<br +/> + Before the script.</p> +<p class="poetry">She thinned as he came not; shrank like a +creature that cowers<br /> +As summer drew nearer; but still had not promised to wed,<br /> +When, just at the zenith of June, in the still night hours,<br /> + She was missed from her bed.</p> +<p class="poetry">“The church!” they whispered with +qualms; “where often she sits.”<br /> +They found her: facing the brass there, else seeing none,<br /> +But feeling the words with her finger, gibbering in fits;<br /> + And she knew them not one.</p> +<p class="poetry">And so she remained, in her handmaids’ +charge; late, soon,<br /> +Tracing words in the air with her finger, as seen that +night—<br /> +<a name="page250"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 250</span>Those +incised on the brass—till at length unwatched one noon,<br +/> + She vanished from sight.</p> +<p class="poetry">And, as talebearers tell, thence on to her +last-taken breath<br /> +Was unseen, save as wraith that in front of the brass made +moan;<br /> +So that ever the way of her life and the time of her death<br /> + Remained unknown.</p> +<p class="poetry">And hence, as indited above, you may read even +now<br /> +The quaint church-text, with the date of her death left bare,<br +/> +In the aged Estminster aisle, where folk yet bow<br /> + Themselves in prayer.</p> +<p><i>October</i> 30, 1907.</p> +<h2><a name="page251"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 251</span>THE +MARBLE-STREETED TOWN</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">reach</span> the +marble-streeted town,<br /> + Whose “Sound” outbreathes its air<br /> + Of sharp sea-salts;<br /> +I see the movement up and down<br /> + As when she was there.<br /> +Ships of all countries come and go,<br /> + The bandsmen boom in the sun<br /> + A throbbing waltz;<br /> +The schoolgirls laugh along the Hoe<br /> + As when she was one.</p> +<p class="poetry">I move away as the music rolls:<br /> + The place seems not to mind<br /> + That she—of old<br /> +The brightest of its native souls—<br /> + Left it behind!<br /> +Over this green aforedays she<br /> + On light treads went and came,<br /> + Yea, times untold;<br /> +Yet none here knows her history—<br /> + Has heard her name.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Plymouth</span> (1914?).</p> +<h2><a name="page252"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 252</span>A +WOMAN DRIVING</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">How</span> she held up the +horses’ heads,<br /> + Firm-lipped, with steady rein,<br /> +Down that grim steep the coastguard treads,<br /> + Till all was safe again!</p> +<p class="poetry">With form erect and keen contour<br /> + She passed against the sea,<br /> +And, dipping into the chine’s obscure,<br /> + Was seen no more by me.</p> +<p class="poetry">To others she appeared anew<br /> + At times of dusky light,<br /> +But always, so they told, withdrew<br /> + From close and curious sight.</p> +<p class="poetry">Some said her silent wheels would roll<br /> + Rutless on softest loam,<br /> +And even that her steeds’ footfall<br /> + Sank not upon the foam.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page253"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +253</span>Where drives she now? It may be where<br /> + No mortal horses are,<br /> +But in a chariot of the air<br /> + Towards some radiant star.</p> +<h2><a name="page254"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 254</span>A +WOMAN’S TRUST</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">If</span> he should live a +thousand years<br /> + He’d find it not again<br /> + That scorn of him by men<br /> +Could less disturb a woman’s trust<br /> +In him as a steadfast star which must<br /> +Rise scathless from the nether spheres:<br /> +If he should live a thousand years<br /> + He’d find it not again.</p> +<p class="poetry">She waited like a little child,<br /> + Unchilled by damps of doubt,<br /> + While from her eyes looked out<br /> +A confidence sublime as Spring’s<br /> +When stressed by Winter’s loiterings.<br /> +Thus, howsoever the wicked wiled,<br /> +She waited like a little child<br /> + Unchilled by damps of doubt.</p> +<p class="poetry">Through cruel years and crueller<br /> + Thus she believed in him<br /> + And his aurore, so dim;<br /> +<a name="page255"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 255</span>That, +after fenweeds, flowers would blow;<br /> +And above all things did she show<br /> +Her faith in his good faith with her;<br /> +Through cruel years and crueller<br /> + Thus she believed in him!</p> +<h2><a name="page256"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 256</span>BEST +TIMES</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> went a +day’s excursion to the stream,<br /> +Basked by the bank, and bent to the ripple-gleam,<br /> + And I did not know<br /> + That life would show,<br /> +However it might flower, no finer glow.</p> +<p class="poetry">I walked in the Sunday sunshine by the road<br +/> +That wound towards the wicket of your abode,<br /> + And I did not think<br /> + That life would shrink<br /> +To nothing ere it shed a rosier pink.</p> +<p class="poetry">Unlooked for I arrived on a rainy night,<br /> +And you hailed me at the door by the swaying light,<br /> + And I full forgot<br /> + That life might not<br /> +Again be touching that ecstatic height.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page257"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +257</span>And that calm eve when you walked up the stair,<br /> +After a gaiety prolonged and rare,<br /> + No thought soever<br /> + That you might never<br /> +Walk down again, struck me as I stood there.</p> +<p>Rewritten from an old draft.</p> +<h2><a name="page258"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 258</span>THE +CASUAL ACQUAINTANCE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">While</span> he was here in +breath and bone,<br /> + To speak to and to see,<br /> +Would I had known—more clearly known—<br /> + What that man did for me</p> +<p class="poetry">When the wind scraped a minor lay,<br /> + And the spent west from white<br /> +To gray turned tiredly, and from gray<br /> + To broadest bands of night!</p> +<p class="poetry">But I saw not, and he saw not<br /> + What shining life-tides flowed<br /> +To me-ward from his casual jot<br /> + Of service on that road.</p> +<p class="poetry">He would have said: “’Twas nothing +new;<br /> + We all do what we can;<br /> +’Twas only what one man would do<br /> + For any other man.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page259"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +259</span>Now that I gauge his goodliness<br /> + He’s slipped from human eyes;<br /> +And when he passed there’s none can guess,<br /> + Or point out where he lies.</p> +<h2><a name="page260"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +260</span>INTRA SEPULCHRUM</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">What</span> curious things we said,<br /> + What curious things we did<br /> +Up there in the world we walked till dead<br /> + Our kith and kin amid!</p> +<p class="poetry"> How we played at love,<br /> + And its wildness, weakness, woe;<br /> +Yes, played thereat far more than enough<br /> + As it turned out, I trow!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Played at believing in +gods<br /> + And observing the ordinances,<br /> +I for your sake in impossible codes<br /> + Right ready to acquiesce.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Thinking our lives unique,<br +/> + Quite quainter than usual kinds,<br /> +We held that we could not abide a week<br /> + The tether of typic minds.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page261"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 261</span>—Yet people who day by day<br +/> + Pass by and look at us<br /> +From over the wall in a casual way<br /> + Are of this unconscious.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And feel, if anything,<br /> + That none can be buried here<br /> +Removed from commonest fashioning,<br /> + Or lending note to a bier:</p> +<p class="poetry"> No twain who in heart-heaves +proved<br /> + Themselves at all adept,<br /> +Who more than many laughed and loved,<br /> + Who more than many wept,</p> +<p class="poetry"> Or were as sprites or +elves<br /> + Into blind matter hurled,<br /> +Or ever could have been to themselves<br /> + The centre of the world.</p> +<h2><a name="page262"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 262</span>THE +WHITEWASHED WALL</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Why</span> does she turn in +that shy soft way<br /> + Whenever she stirs the fire,<br /> +And kiss to the chimney-corner wall,<br /> + As if entranced to admire<br /> +Its whitewashed bareness more than the sight<br /> + Of a rose in richest green?<br /> +I have known her long, but this raptured rite<br /> + I never before have seen.</p> +<p class="poetry">—Well, once when her son cast his shadow +there,<br /> + A friend took a pencil and drew him<br /> +Upon that flame-lit wall. And the lines<br /> + Had a lifelike semblance to him.<br /> +And there long stayed his familiar look;<br /> + But one day, ere she knew,<br /> +The whitener came to cleanse the nook,<br /> + And covered the face from view.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page263"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +263</span>“Yes,” he said: “My brush goes on +with a rush,<br /> + And the draught is buried under;<br /> +When you have to whiten old cots and brighten,<br /> + What else can you do, I wonder?”<br /> +But she knows he’s there. And when she yearns<br /> + For him, deep in the labouring night,<br /> +She sees him as close at hand, and turns<br /> + To him under his sheet of white.</p> +<h2><a name="page264"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 264</span>JUST +THE SAME</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">sat</span>. It all +was past;<br /> +Hope never would hail again;<br /> +Fair days had ceased at a blast,<br /> +The world was a darkened den.</p> +<p class="poetry">The beauty and dream were gone,<br /> +And the halo in which I had hied<br /> +So gaily gallantly on<br /> +Had suffered blot and died!</p> +<p class="poetry">I went forth, heedless whither,<br /> +In a cloud too black for name:<br /> +—People frisked hither and thither;<br /> +The world was just the same.</p> +<h2><a name="page265"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 265</span>THE +LAST TIME</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> kiss had been +given and taken,<br /> + And gathered to many past:<br /> +It never could reawaken;<br /> + But you heard none say: “It’s the +last!”</p> +<p class="poetry">The clock showed the hour and the minute,<br /> + But you did not turn and look:<br /> +You read no finis in it,<br /> + As at closing of a book.</p> +<p class="poetry">But you read it all too rightly<br /> + When, at a time anon,<br /> +A figure lay stretched out whitely,<br /> + And you stood looking thereon.</p> +<h2><a name="page266"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 266</span>THE +SEVEN TIMES</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> dark was +thick. A boy he seemed at that time<br /> + Who trotted by me with uncertain air;<br /> +“I’ll tell my tale,” he murmured, “for I +fancy<br /> + A friend goes there? . . . ”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then thus he told. “I +reached—’twas for the first time—<br /> + A dwelling. Life was clogged in me with +care;<br /> +I thought not I should meet an eyesome maiden,<br /> + But found one there.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I entered on the precincts for the +second time—<br /> + ’Twas an adventure fit and fresh and +fair—<br /> +I slackened in my footsteps at the porchway,<br /> + And found her there.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page267"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +267</span>“I rose and travelled thither for the third +time,<br /> + The hope-hues growing gayer and yet gayer<br /> +As I hastened round the boscage of the outskirts,<br /> + And found her there.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I journeyed to the place again the +fourth time<br /> + (The best and rarest visit of the rare,<br /> +As it seemed to me, engrossed about these goings),<br /> + And found her there.</p> +<p class="poetry">“When I bent me to my pilgrimage the +fifth time<br /> + (Soft-thinking as I journeyed I would dare<br /> +A certain word at token of good auspice),<br /> + I found her there.</p> +<p class="poetry">“That landscape did I traverse for the +sixth time,<br /> + And dreamed on what we purposed to prepare;<br /> +I reached a tryst before my journey’s end came,<br /> + And found her there.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page268"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +268</span>“I went again—long after—aye, the +seventh time;<br /> + The look of things was sinister and bare<br /> +As I caught no customed signal, heard no voice call,<br /> + Nor found her there.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And now I gad the globe—day, +night, and any time,<br /> + To light upon her hiding unaware,<br /> +And, maybe, I shall nigh me to some nymph-niche,<br /> + And find her there!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“But how,” said I, “has your +so little lifetime<br /> + Given roomage for such loving, loss, despair?<br /> +A boy so young!” Forthwith I turned my lantern<br /> + Upon him there.</p> +<p class="poetry">His head was white. His small form, fine +aforetime,<br /> + Was shrunken with old age and battering wear,<br /> +An eighty-years long plodder saw I pacing<br /> + Beside me there.</p> +<h2><a name="page269"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 269</span>THE +SUN’S LAST LOOK ON THE COUNTRY GIRL<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(M. H.)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> sun threw down a +radiant spot<br /> + On the face in the winding-sheet—<br /> +The face it had lit when a babe’s in its cot;<br /> +And the sun knew not, and the face knew not<br /> + That soon they would no more meet.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now that the grave has shut its door,<br /> + And lets not in one ray,<br /> +Do they wonder that they meet no more—<br /> +That face and its beaming visitor—<br /> + That met so many a day?</p> +<p><i>December</i> 1915.</p> +<h2><a name="page270"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 270</span>IN A +LONDON FLAT</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">You</span> look like +a widower,” she said<br /> +Through the folding-doors with a laugh from the bed,<br /> +As he sat by the fire in the outer room,<br /> +Reading late on a night of gloom,<br /> +And a cab-hack’s wheeze, and the clap of its feet<br /> +In its breathless pace on the smooth wet street,<br /> +Were all that came to them now and then . . .<br /> +“You really do!” she quizzed again.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry">And the Spirits behind the curtains heard,<br +/> +And also laughed, amused at her word,<br /> +And at her light-hearted view of him.<br /> +“Let’s get him made so—just for a +whim!”<br /> +<a name="page271"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 271</span>Said the +Phantom Ironic. “’Twould serve her right<br /> +If we coaxed the Will to do it some night.”<br /> +“O pray not!” pleaded the younger one,<br /> +The Sprite of the Pities. “She said it in +fun!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">III</p> +<p class="poetry">But so it befell, whatever the cause,<br /> +That what she had called him he next year was;<br /> +And on such a night, when she lay elsewhere,<br /> +He, watched by those Phantoms, again sat there,<br /> +And gazed, as if gazing on far faint shores,<br /> +At the empty bed through the folding-doors<br /> +As he remembered her words; and wept<br /> +That she had forgotten them where she slept.</p> +<h2><a name="page272"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +272</span>DRAWING DETAILS IN AN OLD CHURCH</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">hear</span> the bell-rope +sawing,<br /> +And the oil-less axle grind,<br /> +As I sit alone here drawing<br /> +What some Gothic brain designed;<br /> +And I catch the toll that follows<br /> + From the lagging bell,<br /> +Ere it spreads to hills and hollows<br /> +Where the parish people dwell.</p> +<p class="poetry">I ask not whom it tolls for,<br /> +Incurious who he be;<br /> +So, some morrow, when those knolls for<br /> +One unguessed, sound out for me,<br /> +A stranger, loitering under<br /> + In nave or choir,<br /> +May think, too, “Whose, I wonder?”<br /> +But care not to inquire.</p> +<h2><a name="page273"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +273</span>RAKE-HELL MUSES</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Yes</span>; since she knows +not need,<br /> + Nor walks in blindness,<br /> +I may without unkindness<br /> + A true thing tell:</p> +<p class="poetry">Which would be truth, indeed,<br /> + Though worse in speaking,<br /> +Were her poor footsteps seeking<br /> + A pauper’s cell.</p> +<p class="poetry">I judge, then, better far<br /> + She now have sorrow,<br /> +Than gladness that to-morrow<br /> + Might know its knell.—</p> +<p class="poetry">It may be men there are<br /> + Could make of union<br /> +A lifelong sweet communion—<br /> + A passioned spell;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page274"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +274</span>But <i>I</i>, to save her name<br /> + And bring salvation<br /> +By altar-affirmation<br /> + And bridal bell;</p> +<p class="poetry">I, by whose rash unshame<br /> + These tears come to her:—<br /> +My faith would more undo her<br /> + Than my farewell!</p> +<p class="poetry">Chained to me, year by year<br /> + My moody madness<br /> +Would wither her old gladness<br /> + Like famine fell.</p> +<p class="poetry">She’ll take the ill that’s near,<br +/> + And bear the blaming.<br /> +’Twill pass. Full soon her shaming<br /> + They’ll cease to yell.</p> +<p class="poetry">Our unborn, first her moan,<br /> + Will grow her guerdon,<br /> +Until from blot and burden<br /> + A joyance swell;</p> +<p class="poetry">In that therein she’ll own<br /> + My good part wholly,<br /> +My evil staining solely<br /> + My own vile vell.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page275"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +275</span>Of the disgrace, may be<br /> + “He shunned to share it,<br /> +Being false,” they’ll say. I’ll bear +it;<br /> + Time will dispel</p> +<p class="poetry">The calumny, and prove<br /> + This much about me,<br /> +That she lives best without me<br /> + Who would live well.</p> +<p class="poetry">That, this once, not self-love<br /> + But good intention<br /> +Pleads that against convention<br /> + We two rebel.</p> +<p class="poetry">For, is one moonlight dance,<br /> + One midnight passion,<br /> +A rock whereon to fashion<br /> + Life’s citadel?</p> +<p class="poetry">Prove they their power to prance<br /> + Life’s miles together<br /> +From upper slope to nether<br /> + Who trip an ell?</p> +<p class="poetry">—Years hence, or now apace,<br /> + May tongues be calling<br /> +News of my further falling<br /> + Sinward pell-mell:</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page276"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +276</span>Then this great good will grace<br /> + Our lives’ division,<br /> +She’s saved from more misprision<br /> + Though I plumb hell.</p> +<p>189–</p> +<h2><a name="page277"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 277</span>THE +COLOUR</h2> +<p>(<i>The following lines are partly made up</i>, <i>partly +remembered from a Wessex folk-rhyme</i>)</p> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">What</span> shall I +bring you?<br /> +Please will white do<br /> +Best for your wearing<br /> + The long day through?”<br /> +“—White is for weddings,<br /> +Weddings, weddings,<br /> +White is for weddings,<br /> + And that won’t do.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“What shall I bring you?<br /> +Please will red do<br /> +Best for your wearing<br /> + The long day through?”<br /> +“ —Red is for soldiers,<br /> +Soldiers, soldiers,<br /> +Red is for soldiers,<br /> + And that won’t do.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page278"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +278</span>“What shall I bring you?<br /> +Please will blue do<br /> +Best for your wearing<br /> + The long day through?”<br /> +“—Blue is for sailors,<br /> +Sailors, sailors,<br /> +Blue is for sailors,<br /> + And that won’t do.</p> +<p class="poetry">“What shall I bring you?<br /> +Please will green do<br /> +Best for your wearing<br /> + The long day through?”<br /> +“—Green is for mayings,<br /> +Mayings, mayings,<br /> +Green is for mayings,<br /> + And that won’t do.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“What shall I bring you<br /> +Then? Will black do<br /> +Best for your wearing<br /> + The long day through?”<br /> +“—Black is for mourning,<br /> +Mourning, mourning,<br /> +Black is for mourning,<br /> + And black will do.”</p> +<h2><a name="page279"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +279</span>MURMURS IN THE GLOOM<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(NOCTURNE)</span></h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">wayfared</span> at the +nadir of the sun<br /> +Where populations meet, though seen of none;<br /> + And millions seemed to sigh around<br /> + As though their haunts were nigh around,<br /> + And unknown throngs to cry around<br /> + Of things late done.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O Seers, who well might high ensample +show”<br /> +(Came throbbing past in plainsong small and slow),<br /> + “Leaders who lead us aimlessly,<br /> + Teachers who train us shamelessly,<br /> + Why let ye smoulder flamelessly<br /> + The truths ye trow?</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye scribes, that urge the old +medicament,<br /> +Whose fusty vials have long dried impotent,<br /> + <a name="page280"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +280</span>Why prop ye meretricious things,<br /> + Denounce the sane as vicious things,<br /> + And call outworn factitious things<br /> + Expedient?</p> +<p class="poetry">“O Dynasties that sway and shake us +so,<br /> +Why rank your magnanimities so low<br /> + That grace can smooth no waters yet,<br /> + But breathing threats and slaughters yet<br /> + Ye grieve Earth’s sons and daughters yet<br /> + As long ago?</p> +<p class="poetry">“Live there no heedful ones of searching +sight,<br /> +Whose accents might be oracles that smite<br /> + To hinder those who frowardly<br /> + Conduct us, and untowardly;<br /> + To lead the nations vawardly<br /> + From gloom to light?”</p> +<p><i>September</i> 22, 1899.</p> +<h2><a name="page281"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +281</span>EPITAPH</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">never</span> cared for +Life: Life cared for me,<br /> +And hence I owed it some fidelity.<br /> +It now says, “Cease; at length thou hast learnt to grind<br +/> +Sufficient toll for an unwilling mind,<br /> +And I dismiss thee—not without regard<br /> +That thou didst ask no ill-advised reward,<br /> +Nor sought in me much more than thou couldst find.”</p> +<h2><a name="page282"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 282</span>AN +ANCIENT TO ANCIENTS</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Where</span> once we +danced, where once sang,<br /> + Gentlemen,<br /> +The floors are sunken, cobwebs hang,<br /> +And cracks creep; worms have fed upon<br /> +The doors. Yea, sprightlier times were then<br /> +Than now, with harps and tabrets gone,<br /> + Gentlemen!</p> +<p class="poetry">Where once we rowed, where once we sailed,<br +/> + Gentlemen,<br /> +And damsels took the tiller, veiled<br /> +Against too strong a stare (God wot<br /> +Their fancy, then or anywhen!)<br /> +Upon that shore we are clean forgot,<br /> + Gentlemen!</p> +<p class="poetry">We have lost somewhat, afar and near,<br /> + Gentlemen,<br /> +The thinning of our ranks each year<br /> +Affords a hint we are nigh undone,<br /> +That we shall not be ever again<br /> +The marked of many, loved of one,<br /> + Gentlemen.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page283"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +283</span>In dance the polka hit our wish,<br /> + Gentlemen,<br /> +The paced quadrille, the spry schottische,<br /> +“Sir Roger.”—And in opera spheres<br /> +The “Girl” (the famed “Bohemian”),<br /> +And “Trovatore,” held the ears,<br /> + Gentlemen.</p> +<p class="poetry">This season’s paintings do not please,<br +/> + Gentlemen,<br /> +Like Etty, Mulready, Maclise;<br /> +Throbbing romance has waned and wanned;<br /> +No wizard wields the witching pen<br /> +Of Bulwer, Scott, Dumas, and Sand,<br /> + Gentlemen.</p> +<p class="poetry">The bower we shrined to Tennyson,<br /> + Gentlemen,<br /> +Is roof-wrecked; damps there drip upon<br /> +Sagged seats, the creeper-nails are rust,<br /> +The spider is sole denizen;<br /> +Even she who read those rhymes is dust,<br /> + Gentlemen!</p> +<p class="poetry">We who met sunrise sanguine-souled,<br /> + Gentlemen,<br /> +Are wearing weary. We are old;<br /> +<a name="page284"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 284</span>These +younger press; we feel our rout<br /> +Is imminent to Aïdes’ den,—<br /> +That evening’s shades are stretching out,<br /> + Gentlemen!</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet, though ours be failing frames,<br /> + Gentlemen,<br /> +So were some others’ history names,<br /> +Who trode their track light-limbed and fast<br /> +As these youth, and not alien<br /> +From enterprise, to their long last,<br /> + Gentlemen.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sophocles, Plato, Socrates,<br /> + Gentlemen,<br /> +Pythagoras, Thucydides,<br /> +Herodotus, and Homer,—yea,<br /> +Clement, Augustin, Origen,<br /> +Burnt brightlier towards their setting-day,<br /> + Gentlemen.</p> +<p class="poetry">And ye, red-lipped and smooth-browed; list,<br +/> + Gentlemen;<br /> +Much is there waits you we have missed;<br /> +Much lore we leave you worth the knowing,<br /> +Much, much has lain outside our ken:<br /> +Nay, rush not: time serves: we are going,<br /> + Gentlemen.</p> +<h2><a name="page285"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +285</span>AFTER READING PSALMS<br /> +XXXIX., XL., ETC.</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simple</span> was I and was +young;<br /> + Kept no gallant tryst, I;<br /> +Even from good words held my tongue,<br /> + <i>Quoniam Tu fecisti</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">Through my youth I stirred me not,<br /> + High adventure missed I,<br /> +Left the shining shrines unsought;<br /> + Yet—<i>me deduxisti</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">At my start by Helicon<br /> + Love-lore little wist I,<br /> +Worldly less; but footed on;<br /> + Why? <i>Me suscepisti</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">When I failed at fervid rhymes,<br /> + “Shall,” I said, “persist +I?”<br /> +“<i>Dies</i>” (I would add at times)<br /> + “<i>Meos posuisti</i>!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page286"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +286</span>So I have fared through many suns;<br /> + Sadly little grist I<br /> +Bring my mill, or any one’s,<br /> + <i>Domine</i>, <i>Tu scisti</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">And at dead of night I call:<br /> + “Though to prophets list I,<br /> +Which hath understood at all?<br /> + Yea: <i>Quem elegisti</i>?”</p> +<p>187–</p> +<h2><a name="page287"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +287</span>SURVIEW<br /> +“Cogitavi vias meas”</h2> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">cry</span> from the +green-grained sticks of the fire<br /> + Made me gaze where it seemed to be:<br /> +’Twas my own voice talking therefrom to me<br /> +On how I had walked when my sun was higher—<br /> + My heart in its arrogancy.</p> +<p class="poetry">“<i>You held not to whatsoever was +true</i>,”<br /> + Said my own voice talking to me:<br /> +“<i>Whatsoever was just you were slack to see</i>;<br /> +<i>Kept not things lovely and pure in view</i>,”<br /> + Said my own voice talking to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“<i>You slighted her that endureth +all</i>,”<br /> + Said my own voice talking to me;<br /> +“<i>Vaunteth not</i>, <i>trusteth hopefully</i>;<br /> +<i>That suffereth long and is kind withal</i>,”<br /> + Said my own voice talking to me.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page288"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +288</span>“<i>You taught not that which you set +about</i>,”<br /> + Said my own voice talking to me;<br /> +“<i>That the greatest of things is Charity</i>. . . +”<br /> +—And the sticks burnt low, and the fire went out,<br /> + And my voice ceased talking to me.</p> +<h2>FOOTNOTES</h2> +<p><a name="footnote46"></a><a href="#citation46" +class="footnote">[46]</a> Quadrilles danced early in the +nineteenth century.</p> +<p><a name="footnote128"></a><a href="#citation128" +class="footnote">[128]</a> It was said her real name was +Eve Trevillian or Trevelyan; and that she was the handsome mother +of two or three illegitimate children, <i>circa</i> +1784–95.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LATE LYRICS AND EARLIER***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 4758-h.htm or 4758-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/7/5/4758 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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